The Bubbles in the Tub
by Tairi Soraryu
Summary: One murder turns into three, and Bones has to balance hunting for justice with...reading bedtime stories? And will the FBI ever clear her apartment habitable again? Rated R for occasional language. Implied BxB, no illicit content.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** First of all, a disclaimer - I haven't actually seen all seasons of _Bones_ yet, so any and all continuity inconsistencies are 100% mine to own. I just started Season 3. Secondly, this is my first Bones fanfiction, and I'm from the gaming fandom, so I may be getting a lot of things wrong in the genre. I welcome all comments, feedback, and corrections, but my only request is...since I'm a first-timer (this time around), please be gentle!

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One**

"Booth, really, you don't have to do this."

Temperance continued her protests as Booth hauled the suitcases out of the trunk of the car. "I could just stay at a motel or something tonight."

"You are not staying in some motel, unprotected, while there's a psycho maniac after your life." He slammed the trunk hard enough to rock the car on its suspension and stormed across the parking lot to the elevators. "You might be a genius, Bones, but you're also human, which means if you had been any closer to the door when the bomb when off, you could be _dead_. As it is, you probably have a concussion from bonking your head against the floor."

"I hit the counter," she pointed out, then pushed the button for the seventh floor herself when they entered the elevator. "And I don't have a concussion. A headache, yes, and some bruises, but it's nothing a little ice and Advil won't cure. A concussion would leave me dizzy, disoriented, and sluggish, and I am not currently exhibiting any of those symptoms."

Booth felt like ripping something, tearing something apart. The ice-cold terror that had snapped over him when he'd gotten the call that a bomb had gone of at Bones' apartment had given way to fury, hot, ripe fury that pumped through him like lava with nowhere to go. "Could you just shut up for once?"

Surprise flickered across her face, and Temperance turned to face Booth. She wasn't good at reading faces—she needed Angela for the subtleties of non-verbal communication—but she thought she knew Booth well enough by now to know when he was frustrated, angry, and on the edge of losing control.  
He was all three of those now.

She changed tactics. "I appreciate you coming to get me."

That startled him enough to have _him_ shutting up, for about three seconds. "Oh. What?" He peered at her suspiciously as the car dinged and the doors slid open on his floor. "Are you sure you didn't hit your head too hard?"

She laughed at that, preceding him out of the elevator. "Ice and Advil," she repeated. "And maybe a bath."

"Bath!" Booth smacked himself in the forehead and did an about-face. "Parker."

"What?" Temperance had to hurry to make it back to the elevator before the doors closed. Booth punched the button for the fifth floor. "Where are we going?"

Booth re-shouldered the duffel bag Temperance had hastily packed when he'd announced she was staying at his place that night. "I have Parker for the weekend—Rebecca's out of town, so he's staying with me. I dropped him off at a neighbor's when I got the call that you'd gotten blown up." He slid her a glance as he stepped off the elevator.

"That's not entirely true," Temperance protested. She had to jog to keep up with Booth's ground-eating stride. He stopped in front of 514, glanced at her again. "What?"

"Just…don't say anything anthropologic-y," he ordered, and rang the doorbell.

The woman who answered the door was, in a word, gorgeous. Curling blond hair draped over breasts neatly outlined by the shoulder-baring top in seashell pink. Her legs, encased in stretch pants, went on for miles and ended in very high, very thin heels.

Temperance barely refrained from sniffing, but the perfume that wafted out was a mixture of floral and spice. Angela would likely call it the "fuck-me" scent. Temperance wasn't big on social graces, but she figured even _she_ could read the signals, and the signal was a giant, screaming _green_ for Booth.

The woman's expression went from sultry layered over annoyance to pure annoyance as she caught sight of Temperance. _Red light._ "Who's she?" Her voice was throaty, bordering on congested. Temperance wondered if Booth went for the obvious and ridiculous come-get-me purr that some women affected.

Booth didn't even wince. "My friend. Her place got wrecked, so I had to pick her up."

The glance the woman scraped over Temperance, head to toe, wasn't complimentary. "She looks like she's the one who got wrecked," she commented.

Footsteps pounded furiously from elsewhere in the apartment, and Parker bulleted out from behind the woman to throw his arms around Booth. "Dad! You're back!"

His voice was that of a survivor greeting the rescue crew. Booth bent down to ruffle Parker's hair. "Were you good for Amanda?"

Parker's lip poked out, and his voice went sulky. "She wouldn't let me touch anything. I'm thirsty, Dad."

"Go get your trucks, then, and we'll get you some juice." Parker let out an exuberant yell and dashed back for his toys. Booth straightened and sent Amanda a winning smile. "Thanks for taking care of him." He refrained from adding _I owe you._ He and Amanda had entertained a brief affair a few months back, but he had ended it, not entirely without some resistance from her. She'd been a little too pushy for his taste, and he wouldn't have called her if it hadn't been an emergency. As it was, he'd gotten lucky she was in, and alone, on a Friday night.

Thank God for the common cold.

Parker came back with an armload of brightly colored toy trucks. Booth laid a hand on his son's head. "Tell Amanda thank you," he instructed.

If a sneer had sound, it was in Parker's voice. "_Thank you very much,_" he intoned.

Booth lifted an eyebrow. "Good night, Amanda." He nudged Temperance with his elbow and beat a fast retreat to the elevator. The resounding slam of the door was enough to rattle his teeth.

"She wasn't very nice," Parker pointed out as they waited for the elevator. He turned his face to grin up at Temperance. "Not like you, Dr. Bones. Will you hold my trucks?" He held out the biggest one, which was slipping out of his grip.

Charmed, Temperance crouched down so she could relieve him of two of his toys. "I'd love to," she said. The elevator dinged, and they stepped on. Parker happily pushed the button for their floor, and she asked, "Are you excited to spend the weekend with your dad?"

"Uh-huh!" Parker's enthusiastic affirmative beamed out on his face. "Dad is _so_ cool! I get to stay up and watch TV, and then we sleep in _forever_! He said he'd make pancakes for breakfast, and then we're going to the park, and the aquarium, and we'll have ice cream. Are you coming, too? Is that why he picked you up?"

Temperance flicked Booth a glance. "Well…I wouldn't want to intrude on your weekend plans. I—"

Booth interrupted her. "Maybe," he told his son.

Parker whooped and ran in front down the hall. "He likes you," Booth said, unnecessarily, as they followed at a slower pace. "He'd like it if you came."

He let them in to the apartment, instructing Parker to put his trucks away. Booth led Brennan down the hall to the bedroom, dumped her bags on the floor. Temperance glanced around with unmasked interest. The room was more elegantly appointed than she'd expected of Booth, but it suited him, more than she'd imagined. The walls were a dark hunter green, the furniture a clear-coated pine that gave the room a rustic feel. Framed artwork and woven rugs added sophistication, and the framed photos of Parker on a nightstand turned the whole homey.

She looked at the neatly-made bed, the slippers lined up at the edge, and turned to Booth. "This is your room."

He moved his shoulders. "I'll take the couch."

Temperance shook her head. "This is your place. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Don't be stupid, Bones." She heard frustration and steel in his voice. "Just take the bed. You don't want to sleep on the couch after the day you had."

She thought about it for about a moment. The adrenaline of the moment was fading, and every bruise and bump was making itself known in a symphony of aches across her body. He was right; she didn't want to sleep on a couch.

"Thank you, Booth."

His grin was full of triumph. "About that bath—"

Parker came running in. "Dad! Dad, you said I could have some juice." He clutched a plastic cup in both hands. He looked past Booth to Temperance, skimmed a glance over her that was much less judgmental but the same kind of appraisal as Amanda had. "Dr. Bones looks like she could use some, too."

Booth laughed. "Let's all have some juice. How about that?" Parker raced off with an abundance of energy that had Temperance feeling her age. She followed Booth out to the kitchen, leaned against the counter while he pulled out a container of grape juice from the fridge to fill Parker's sippy cup and two glasses. Parker installed himself at the kitchen table, concentrating on his juice, while Booth handed a glass and an ice pack from the freezer to Temperance.

He sat at the table next to Parker. "What kind of pancakes should we make tomorrow?"

Parker gulped juice. "Blueberry!"

"I was thinking bacon," Booth replied conversationally.

Parker screwed up his face. "_Ewww_." He turned to Temperance, who stayed where she was by the counter. "Bacon's nasty. Isn't it, Dr. Bones? You're supposed to sit down when you drink juice," he corrected her. "That way if you spill, you won't make a mess."

Temperance lifted her eyebrows even as she complied. "I didn't know your dad was so fussy about making messes."

"It's Mom's rule," Parker sighed. "Dad lets me drink juice on the sofa sometimes."

"Your dad's a rule-breaker, all right," Temperance joked. Parker laughed at that.

Booth sat back and enjoyed the interaction between his partner and his son. He never would have thought Temperance would like small children. Her dealings with adults would be indication enough that she didn't always handle human relationships with either grace or tact. He felt the tension of the evening draining away as he listened to their bantering, though he felt honor-bound to interrupt when they started in on bacon's flaws.

"Look, bacon's an American tradition," he cut in as Temperance started in on her vegan-diet spiel. "It's like apple pie, or the bald eagle. It's sacred, okay?"

"Dr. Bones says she can't eat pancakes for breakfast if they're bacon pancakes," Parker pointed out. He paused to slurp noisily at the last of his juice. "I want blueberry pancakes, anyway. And chocolate ice cream after the aquarium."

Temperance couldn't follow the train of thought, but Booth seemed to take it all in stride. "Sure thing, champ," he said. He pointed to the sink. "Put your dishes away. It's bathtime."

Parker scampered off, disappearing down the hallway, and Booth turned to Temperance. "You'll have to hold off on the bath until after Parker's had his. Advil's in the cupboard by the sink." He got up to follow his son's voice, calling from the bathroom.

Temperance listened for a moment as Booth went down the hall. She heard their conversation—something about why the aquarium didn't have any whales—and then the sound of water running in the tub drowned out their voices. With a groan, she levered herself out of her chair and helped herself to a couple Advil, downing them with the last of her juice. Her left elbow smarted, and a quick check showed an impressive bruise beginning to form. She'd likely smacked it when the blast had thrown her backwards from her door.

She tried to concentrate on what had happened just hours ago. Everything was jumbled in her mind, and she couldn't keep her thoughts straight. Memories of her evening at home jumbled with events of the day until she couldn't keep them straight. One moment she could remember hearing the doorbell ring in her apartment and she was walking to answer it, the next she was talking with her team about the latest case at the lab.

"Bones."

She jumped at the sound of Booth's voice, whirling around to find him standing in the doorway. His eyes were wary. "Sorry. You okay?"

Her heart was thumping in her ears, as if she'd just completed a wild sprint. "I'm fine. You just…I was thinking."

He crossed to her, cupped her chin in his hand so she was forced to meet his eyes. "You sure you don't have a concussion?" he asked, but it was more of an accusation.

Temperance shook her head, and even that slight motion had the world spinning a little. "I'm fine," she argued.

Booth's mouth thinned, a sure sign he didn't believe her, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "You're not, but we'll pretend I believe you. Parker wants you to tell him a story during bathtime," he said, and steered her down the hall to where the sounds of splashing came clearly through the open bathroom door. "Sit on the toilet."

Temperance complied, watching Booth kneel down by the edge of the tub and reach in to pick up the washcloth that floated among a flotilla of boats. A lone rubber duck bobbed in the water, and Parker made motorboat noises and steered one boat around him while Booth soaped his back. The scene looked distant, as if it came from an old movie reel, and Temperance blinked to keep them in focus.

Parker was talking to her. "Tell me a story, Dr. Bones," he said. "Tell me something funny."

"Funny?" The look she sent Booth was one of pure panic. "I don't think I'm the right person to ask for funny stories."

Parker's voice went straight to pleading. "Come on, Dr. Bones! I want you to tell me a story!"

His voice cut straight through her throbbing temples, and to placate him, if nothing else, Temperance held up her hands in surrender. "All right. I'll try. Um…" She stumbled for words. "How about…" Her mind wouldn't focus. All she could think about was whether or not Hodgins would be able to find any particulates to help determine the bomb's origins.

Booth came to her rescue. "You know, Bones is probably pretty tired right now. She got hurt at work, so she can tell you a story tomorrow, okay? I'll tell you one though, it's really funny." Parker's attention diverted, Booth cast Temperance a worried glance before launching into a made-up tale about a dragon named Zack who was really smart but was always saying silly things to people and made all the knights in the realm angry because every time they went out to slay him, he made them laugh so hard they couldn't hold their swords.

Temperance stayed where she was while Booth lifted Parker out of the tub, drained the water and toweled his son dry. She barely listened as Booth sang Parker a silly song—"Oh where, oh where has my Pa-arker gone?"—and then flew him out of the bathroom like an airplane.

Booth came back in after putting Parker to bed. The boy had complained only a little about going to bed early on a Friday night but subsided at the promise of a sprinkle cone with his ice cream the next day. Temperance hadn't moved from where she sat, staring at the stranded toys in the tub.

"Hey." He steadied her when she jerked around to look at him. "You sure you won't faint in the bath?"

Her voice held a measure of her usual character when she said, "I don't need you checking in on me, Booth."

His eyebrows went up and down, a facial shrug, as he cleared out the tub and ran the water hot. "If you're not out in thirty minutes, I'm banging on the door," he warned her. "Don't lock it, or I'll have to break it down."

She didn't have a retort handy for that. Booth handed her the extra towel from the linen closet, then shut the door gently behind him. Temperance could have wept as she submerged herself up to her chin in the steaming water, bruises singing as the warmth soothed her aches.

The bathroom smelled of child's shampoo and citrus body soap. Interested, Temperance sat up and sniffed the soap bar. _Yup,_ she thought, _that's Booth._ She lay back, the water easing her hurts, and closed her eyes as her mind drifted back to the case.

It was a puzzling case. There were no indications they had a serial murderer on their hands, but the evidence pointed to a professional kill. They had an ID on the victim, 29-year-old Vanessa Hammond, and Booth had interviewed all the relevant people, but so far they had no leads. The bombing attempt on her apartment was the latest development in the case, and seemed entirely unrelated to the rest of the investigation.

Banging on the door startled her out of her musings. "You awake?"

It made her smile. "I'm fine," she called back. "I'll be right out."

"Ten minutes," he warned. "Heat goes to your head and cooks your brains if you're in there too long."

"That is completely unfounded," she called back, and was rewarded with an exaggerated chuckle. Temperance smiled and quickly scrubbed clean before draining the tub and stepping out to wrap herself in the towel.

Toweling her hair dry, she made an uncomfortable realization.

Her clean clothes were all in the bedroom.

Temperance sighed and twisted her damp hair into a loose bun to keep it off her neck, then wrapped the towel firmly around her body. She opened the door a crack and peeked out. She heard the sound of the TV from the living room and, satisfied that she could sneak into the room with Booth none the wiser, tiptoed down the hall to the lit bedroom.

She shut the door behind her and breathed a sigh of relief, loosening the towel as she started across the room for her duffel bag.

"Jesus, Bones."

She stifled the shriek as Booth poked his head around the open closet door. She clutched at the drooping towel, snugging it around her even as he retreated back into the closet. "What are you doing in here?" she demanded as mortification rose inside her.

Booth snapped, "It's my damn room."

That was reasonable. "You can come out of the closet."

There was a pause. "You really need to get in touch with reality every now and again," he said. Even when he emerged, shirt and pants in hand, he kept his eyes averted. "You know, anthropological brainiac type like you, you'd think language would be of interest to you. You know, colloquialisms, things like that."

"I'm not a linguist," she pointed out. "I study human culture, not human language. Studying language is an imprecise science, anyway, because you can only really objectively study the languages as currently spoken. Relying on written records for linguistic analysis is inexact, because language is spoken communication, and written documents are not a reliable source of information about the spoken norms of any given time period."

Booth's mouth kicked up at one corner. "Bath did you good," he commented. "You must be feeling better if you can manage to say all that without stumbling over your own tongue."

Responding to the humor in his voice, even if she didn't understand why the impreciseness of linguistic study was amusing to him, Temperance said, "It helped. Thanks."

Booth cleared his throat. He still wouldn't look at her directly. "Yeah, sure. Ah, let me just grab a couple more things here, and then I'll get out of your way." He rummaged through the dresser, tucking the last items into the crook of his arm. "See you in the morning, Bones."

"Good night." The door clicked quietly behind him, and Temperance rummaged in her bag for her pajamas before turning on the bedside lamp. She flicked off the lights and peeked out the door. The TV was still on, and she thought she recognized the dialogue as from an old black-and-white film.

Absurdly comforted just by knowing that Booth was there, she slid between the cool sheets, turned off the lamp, and dropped instantly and soundlessly into sleep.

* * *

~3.13.11


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thanks for the reviews! Please let me know if I need to go back and update any of the factual information (I couldn't figure out the correct species for the common greenhouse rose, for example, but I do think metacarpals are the right bones for this situation.) I appreciate your comments! Also, I'm really bad at scene transitions, so any suggestions and feedback is appreciated!

**Chapter Two**

**

* * *

**

Temperance woke up, suddenly and completely. For a minute she stared at the ceiling, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, before she remembered. Booth's apartment, Booth's bed.

Booth's child jumping up and down on the mattress beside her and shouting about blueberry pancakes.

"Dad! Wake up! It's pancakes!"

The boy had amazing precision in landing, even if his eyesight, or his powers of perception, could use some work. He bounced around the bed, avoiding crushing Temperance's legs. She scooted up, drawing her legs up, just to be safe. "I'm not your father," she managed as her head throbbed.

Parker, obviously, wasn't listening. "Pancakes! Come on, Dad!"

"Dad's over here."

Temperance and Parker both turned to find Booth standing in the doorway, sleepy and scowling. His hair was mussed, and there was a deep sleep crease along his left cheek. He wore a plain gray T-shirt that showed off the muscles in his arms and a pair of checkered pajama pants that bagged around his ankles. Booth lifted an eyebrow at his son. "Off the bed, buddy, and into the kitchen. You can have some milk."

Parker looked on the verge of tears as he looked at Bones. "I'm sorry, Dr. Bones!" She braced when he rushed her, but he just threw his arms around her, locking her into a hug. "I forgot you were here!" Mortification turned instantly to joy, and Temperance had to fight back the gasp of pain as he sent fresh bruises weeping.

"Easy, champ." Booth started across the room. "Bones is hurt."

Parker's arms released her with the speed of a spring-loaded bear trap in reverse. "Sorry!" He must have seen her wince, and he whispered fervently, "Sorry, Dr. Bones, I'm sorry!"

She managed a smile, lifting an arm to tousle his hair. "It's okay." She gamely swallowed down the whimper of pain, adding, "Let me get dressed, and I'll come help with pancakes, all right?"

"Okay," Parker stage-whispered. He clambered off the bed, tucking his hand into Booth's and tugging insistently to lead his father out of the room.

Booth looked over his shoulder. "I'll get the Advil out."

She smiled at that, swinging her legs out of bed. She'd slept soundly—she supposed the common phrase "like a rock" wouldn't be out of place in this instance. She had packed her loosest, comfiest clothes, knowing her body would prefer soft materials to stiff materials and abrasive fabrics.

Booth's mention of Advil outweighed vanity, and Temperance tied her hair back into a loose ponytail without bothering to brush out the tangles. Parker stood on a kitchen chair at the counter while Booth laid out the ingredients for homemade pancakes. They both wore matching aprons, Parker's hanging down to his ankles. When Booth turned to open the refrigerator, Temperance was amused to see some cartoon character posing over Booth's abdomen.

"I'm vegan," she said, unnecessarily. She doubted Booth had anything in his apartment she could eat. "I could run down to the store and pick something up…"

He pointed to where a glass of water sat on the counter next to the open bottle of Advil. "I haven't forgotten. Remember that time I made vegan muffins for you?" He jerked his thumb at the box of flour beside the mixing bowl. "Trust me."

The muffins had been a surprise, both because the gift itself was unexpected, and because she hadn't thought Booth—_Booth_—would be capable of something as delicate as baking. Someone as masculine as Booth was the last person Temperance would imagine as being capable in the kitchen.

"To the lab today?" Booth kept his voice casual as he stationed himself beside Parker and guided the boy through the correct measurements to make pancake batter.

Temperance was, despite herself, impressed by Booth's obvious culinary know-how. She silently took the used dishes, washing them as Booth handed them to her. "I don't want to disrupt your day. You're going to the aquarium, right?"

"And the park!" Parker would have stirred the batter enthusiastically enough to splatter every surface within range had Booth not kept a firm grip on the spoon. "Dad's teaching me how to play football. You could come, but…" He slid Temperance a skeptical glance. "You probably won't be very good."

The patronizingly traditional remark would have been sexist coming from anyone other than Booth's son. Temperance just smiled at him. "I probably wouldn't be," she agreed, ignoring Booth's exaggerated eye roll. The same comment, coming from him, would have been the start of a prolonged argument between the two of them, and Temperance stifled a laugh at his silent complaint of the double standards. To Booth, she said, "I could take a taxi."

Booth snorted rudely and turned on the burner beneath the waiting griddle. "You pulled in the squint squad?"

"They'll be there by ten," she confirmed, glancing at the clock. "Angela said anything earlier would be classified as cruel and unusual punishment, which is strictly prohibited by law. I need Hodgins to look at particulates to determine the origins of the explosives used."

Booth handed Parker a plate to hold the finished pancakes, dripped batter onto the griddle, where it sizzled. "We'll drop you off and do the aquarium tomorrow. We talked about it, right, Parker?" He slid the first batch of cooked pancakes onto the waiting plate as Parker nodded gravely.

His face was solemn as he repeated the rehearsed lines. "The lab's closed tomorrow for ro-routine maintenance, so you'll have to pretend to be normal and take a day off. And you'll come to the aquarium with us!" Parker broke out into a glowing grin at his success. "I said it right, Dad! I told you I would!"

"Good job," Booth said, grinning. He shifted the grin to Temperance, not the least bit abashed at being outed by his son for his behavior. "We'll bring you lunch."

* * *

Angela swept Temperance into a loose hug when she stepped into the lab, mindful of injuries. "How _are_ you, sweetie?"

A little surprised by the vehemence of the question, Temperance gave Angela a perfunctory pat on the back. "I'm fine, Ange. Just annoyed that my place was blown up—again," she added, thinking about the last bomb planted in her apartment. _That_ one had taken out her refrigerator, and Booth with it. "I'm really more interested in seeing what Hodgins can come up with about narrowing down what kind of explosive was used. Zack and I will continue to work on the case. I doubt the two are unrelated."

Angela eased back, looked into Temperance's face, sighed. "All right. What can I do?"

"There's not much," Temperance admitted. "Once Zack and I can give you a better approximation of the depth and angle of the cut marks on the bones, you can do a work-up of a possible scenario of the attack."

"Okay. Where's Booth?" Angela couldn't help herself; the grin spread before she could hold it back. She did give herself credit for restraining the suggestive eyebrow wiggle. "He didn't come in with you today?"

The implications were lost on Brennan. "He took Parker to play football at the park." She turned into her office and frowned at the ostentatious bouquet of flowers on her desk. "What are these?"

"Roses," Angela replied, impressed despite herself. "Where they have from, I have no idea." She moved forward to sniff at one delicate pink bloom, noticed the sealed card nestled amid the baby's breath. "You have a rich secret admirer," she teased, holding the card out. "Two dozen roses don't come cheap."

Temperance laid a hand on Angela's shoulder, drew her back. "Let's find out who delivered these," she said, wary of traps. She held the card at the corner with two fingers, called over a tech and ordered for them to dust for fingerprints. She met Angela's worried eyes with her own. "Until we know for sure that everything is safe, I think it's safe to assume that nothing is."

* * *

Her phone rang, jolting her out of concentration. Temperance peeled off her glove to answer. "Brennan."

"Hungry?"

"Booth." Temperance glanced at her wristwatch. It was half past one, but she'd barely noticed the passing time. "What do you want?"

She could _hear_ him rolling his eyes at her. "Even forensic anthropologists have to eat from time to time. Parker and I've got an extra vegan burger wasting away out here. If you don't eat it, not even the pigeons will."

"Where are you?"

"Out front." The traffic noise attested to that, and Temperance thought she heard splashing from the fountain outside the main entrance to the Jeffersonian Institute. "Parker's itching to get a look at the place, but I thought you could, you know, childproof the place up a bit before I expose my five-year-old kid to rotting corpses and eye sockets."

"Eye sockets don't rot," Temperance pointed out. "The sockets themselves are bone, which doesn't rot, as flesh does. Under the right circumstances, bone can deteriorate, given enough time, but your statement indicates a—"

"Bones." He cut her off. "Just tell Angela what I said, all right? And give me a call when it's okay for us to get in there. And—" he hastened to add before she cut him off "—make it quick, before we broil out here."

He clicked off, and Temperance frowned at the phone. "Somebody's touchy," she muttered before sticking the phone back into her pocket. Zack looked up from where he inspected the metacarpals on the backlit examination table. "I was told to 'childproof the place up.' I don't understand what that even means."

"I am not the person to reference when it comes to the vagaries of slang terms," Zack replied, returning his attention to the bone fragment. "I am seeing oddly regular striation patterns on this bone here, though. The markings seem inconsistent with damage on the rest of the skeleton."

Temperance leaned in to get a closer look. "Good work, Zack. See if you can enlarge the area and find a match with any sort of saw, circular or rotating, that may have caused those marks. Also, let's check the rest of the bones for similar markings." She tossed her gloves into a trashcan on her way out of the room. "I have to find Angela."

She didn't find Angela, but she did run into Cam coming out of the autopsy room. Cam hung her blue lab coat on a hook by the door, ready for a much-needed break from the organs she'd just weighed and measured. "Any progress?"

"Zack found striations on the metacarpals of the right hand," Temperance replied automatically. She shook her head. "Have you seen Angela?"

"I sent her down to the archives to pull some records for me and do some scene reconstruction on the Angelator. Why?"

"Booth called. I have to relay something to her."

Cam lifted an eyebrow. Booth and Angela were friendly, but she figured that Temperance had misunderstood Booth's intentions somewhere. She dipped her hands into the pockets of her slacks. "Try me."

"He said he doesn't want his son exposed to rotting eye sockets." Temperance paused, then amended, "Actually, what he said was 'rotting corpses _and_ eye sockets,' although I fail to see how that distinction makes any negligible difference in meaning. I told him that eye sockets technically don't rot, and he said to tell Angela. I also don't understand why Angela would be interested, because she is well aware that bone does not decompose as flesh does, and she finds even the discussion of decomposition unpleasant."

Well accustomed to translating for her team of scientific geniuses, Cam prompted, "What was it he said before that?" Temperance looked blank, so Cam elaborated, "You know, before the part about rotting eye sockets."

"Oh. He says Parker wants a tour of the lab. He also used the phrase 'childproof,' which is rather unnecessary. Parker, while inquisitive, is unlikely to render much damage to the lab equipment, as I assume Booth will provide adequate supervision."

Cam had to laugh at that. "He means protect Parker from the lab," she explained, and steered Temperance to the central platform. Swiping her security card, she halted Temperance at the top of the steps. The skeleton lay on the center slab, and on the nearby computer screen, the internet browser had been left open to a time-lapse image of fish feeding on human flesh. "This isn't exactly what you'd want a five-year-old to see." She sighed at the expression on Temperance's face. "Where are they now?"

"Outside." Temperance tried to see what would be offensive to a child who played with toy trucks and wore a matching Transformers apron as his father. "He also said to hurry before they broil, which I understand is an exaggeration, as it's impossible to broil due to exposure to the sun."

"I'll take care of the childproofing." Cam shook her head and Temperance and shooed her down the steps. "You get Booth in here before he and his son decide to beat the heat by taking a dip in the fountain. That would _really_ look good on interdepartmental memos."

* * *

Booth shared a bottle of water with Parker as they made their way through the blessedly air-conditioned lobby of the Jeffersonian. Temperance met them at the sliding glass doors to the lab. Parker's face was red-cheeked from heat, and his sandy curls lay limply on his forehead. Booth looked only mildly less overheated.

Angela greeted Parker enthusiastically while Booth handed Temperance the take-out bag. "Did you have fun at the park?"

"Uh-huh." Parker knew Angela from the handful of holiday parties he'd been to with his dad. He liked her, with her big smile and pretty hair. She also talked to him. Not just in a way that he understood, but she talked _to_ him. Some of the other people his dad called 'squints' didn't interact with him. Then again, from what he'd seen, some of the squints didn't interact with people, period.

"Let's show you around the place, huh?" Angela was charmed when Parker willingly transferred his hand from Booth's to hers, squeezed in absolute, unquestioning trust. She sent Temperance a glance. "Maybe we can go to Bones' office first so you can put the food down there."

"Okay! Dr. Bones, do you have a big office like Dad does?" He'd been to his father's office only a couple times, on rare occasions when he'd been with his dad on the weekend and his dad had gone in to file paperwork or something. "Dad has a baseball bat and stuff in his, and a picture of me on his desk."

Temperance smiled. "I know he does." She'd seen it, countless times. She'd also gotten scolded for touching that baseball bat. "You can see for yourself."

"Wow!" Parker released Angela's hand to run in. "Your office is bigger than Dad's! You even have a couch!" He dove onto the furniture, toppling head over heels over the arm of the sofa. He popped right up. "Why don't you have a couch, Dad?"

Booth frowned at the bouquet of roses dominating the coffee table. "My office isn't for visitors to feel comfortable," he muttered, and strode forward. The look he shot Temperance was one of slit-eyed suspicion. "What are these?"

"Roses." Temperance set the bag on her desk, tucked her hands into her pockets. She knew that look on Booth's face, his hard-eyed, flint-edged interrogation face. Her own initial alarm had faded, leaving only mild irritation and the sighing tolerance for Booth's alpha-male need to 'defend' her. "Genus _Rosa_, probably a hybrid. These ones were likely cultivated in a greenhouse, as they are too uniform in shape and size to be of the free-growing variety or cut from a home garden."

"Bones." Booth's hands tightened into fists in his pockets. "Who sent them?" Temperance wasn't seeing anyone right now, and her father or brother weren't the type to send flowers, even after the attempt on her life the day before. She'd already spoken to them both on the phone, reassured them she was fine.

Angela cut in smoothly. "How about Parker and I take a walk around, see the place? I think Hodgins has something set up in the experiment lab that Parker would like to see." Parker's ears perked at the word 'experiment.'

Booth didn't take his eyes off Temperance's. "Nothing dangerous," he warned. "Tell Hodgins if he gets my son caught up in some crazy scheme, I'm going in there and shooting him between the eyes with my gun." He waited until he heard Angela and Parker leave, then repeated with deadly patience, "Who are the roses from, Bones?"

She sighed and, defeated, sank onto the sofa, where she could stare at the ridiculous flower arrangement with her chin propped on her hands. "We thought you could help with finding that out."

His eyes sharpened. "You think it's related to the six-fingered lady case?" Vanessa Hammond, victim, with no open leads and no prime suspects.

"I don't know. It came with a card." Temperance reached into her jacket pocket, where she'd kept the card sealed in an evidence bag as a precaution. The fingerprint team had come up with nothing. Booth winced but accepted the latex glove she handed him, begrudgingly sticking two fingers into the glove to handle the card.

His mouth went hard as he skimmed the three lines of text:

_Dr. Brennan—_

_I'd hoped to send you these at your hospital room._

_Next time, they'll find you at your funeral._

"Not very subtle," Temperance commented as Booth stared silently at the words on the card long after she was sure he'd finished reading. He transferred that stony stare to her, and she continued, unfazed, "The lack of fingerprints on the card indicates it likely was printed at home, rather than a florist's shop. Otherwise we could have found fingerprints of the florist shop's proprietor, who would have had to take the envelope. We checked for DNA on the seal of the envelope, but my mystery flower sender didn't lick it. Whoever this is, he—or she—isn't sloppy."

"They're dead." At Temperance's confused look, Booth said coldly, "Killing Vanessa Hammond, that's a crime, and I'll bust them for it. That's my job, that's what I do. But coming after you, personally? That's the mistake that's going to hang them. They're not going to get away with it."

"They won't." Interested by the vehemence of his reaction, Temperance tilted her head to watch Booth. He jammed the card back in the bag, tossed it and the used glove onto the table beside the vase. "We're working on collecting the evidence, Booth. When you find the perpetrator, we'll be ready."

He shook his head. "It's not about evidence," he muttered, ignoring her instant denial. His eyes met hers, burned. "They came after you. _My partner._ That's personal, and they're not getting away with it. They're dead," he repeated.

"The walking dead. They just don't know it yet."

* * *

~3.15.11


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** A lot of exposition, and my facts may not be all accurate. Sorry for all the talking in this one, it went longer than expected. Please drop me a note if I should fix anything up. Thanks also for the reviews!

**

* * *

Chapter Three**

Monday morning found Temperance at her computer, sorting through the emails that had piled up over the weekend and a number of voicemails from her agent, her publicist, and a journalist interested in a special interview on her upcoming book. She had her office door open to the sounds of movement and voices in the lab, a familiar background hum that barely registered.

Cam paused in the doorway. If she hadn't known about the events of the weekend, she wouldn't have noticed anything different about Temperance. Even the flowers had been disposed of, after all parties had agreed that no more evidence would be gained by keeping them, and Temperance looked the same old Temperance Brennan, forensic anthropologist, hard at work in her office.

"You all right, Dr. Brennan?"

"Dr. Saroyan." Temperance sat back in her chair, startled. It wasn't like her to be startled by a visitor at her door. "I'm sorry; I was…busy."

Cam held up a hand. "No apologies, Dr. Brennan."

"Do you have something for me?"

"No." Cam sighed a little. Their relationship had started out rocky, and while it had progressed significantly, there were still times when Cam wished Temperance were more like a normal woman. It would certainly make working together less awkward at moments like these. What would be a friendly overture for anyone else was like pulling teeth with Temperance. "I just…wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Oh." Temperance had to blink and compute that. She understood, rationally, that Cam wasn't checking in on her because she doubted Temperance's abilities. While Temperance didn't understand the subtleties of human relationships with the innate sort of grasp that Angela or Booth did, she had come to understand the dynamics of her team, and that included Cam.

So she managed a weak smile. "I've got a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my left ribs, and my neck is still sore when I try to turn it too far." She rotated her shoulders warily. "Booth took me by my apartment yesterday. The FBI still has everything blocked off as a crime scene. I'd like to get the renovators in there as soon as possible, but we have to wait for proper authorization."

"I noticed he dropped you off this morning, too. You don't have your car?" Cam didn't want to pry, but, hell, she was only human after all.

"Booth says I can't drive myself." Her voice turned sulky without her noticing, and Temperance scowled at her phone on the desk, as if she could transmit her thoughts directly to Booth. "He claims that since I don't have full rotation of my neck, I can't adequately check my blind spot, and would be a danger on the road. Because that is a logically sound argument—and rather surprising, coming from him—I couldn't find rational grounds to disagree."

Cam laughed at that, shaking her head. "Dr. Brennan, you are something else." She knew Temperance wouldn't understand that, so she asked, "How long until the FBI clears your place for renovation?"

Temperance shrugged. That was another source of irritation. "Likely until the end of the week. Booth could hurry that up, if he wanted to, but he won't. He claims I'm safer with him around."

"From Booth's perspective, very sound logic," Cam agreed. "And Parker?"

"He's back with his mother during the school week."

Cam hesitated, another uncomfortable moment. "Look, Dr. Brennan—I know we're not what most would consider close, but…If it's awkward for you, staying at Booth's, I'd like you to know that you're welcome to stay at my place. I'd be the first to admit, I'm not as handy in the kitchen as he is, but…the invitation's there for you."

Touched, Temperance smiled fully, and meant it. "Thank you, Dr. Saroyan." She didn't mention that she was thinking about talking to Angela. She knew Booth wasn't sleeping well on the sofa, and without Parker there as a buffer, staying at Booth's place was just asking for the nosy gossipmongers to start.

"Well. I'll just let you get back to work." Cam headed out the door. "I'll be in my office if you need me for anything."

Temperance sat a moment, mulling over Cam's comments. She'd never placed much importance in having many friends, but Cam's offer, nonetheless, wasn't unwelcome.

Hodgins strode through the door, already talking. "Nitrogen dioxide, carbon monoxide, benzene, and formaldehyde."

She translated instantly as Zack followed Hodgins in. "Car exhaust?"

"From non-diesel engines," Zack added with a barely concealed scowl at Hodgins. Dammit, he'd _never_ be King of the Lab at this rate, though he attributed that at least in part to Hodgins' competitive nature. Zack never let the idea of 'winning' interfere with thoroughness on the job. "In fairly low concentrations."

Hodgins gave Zack a nudge with his elbow. Whose report did the kid think this was? Serfs were not to speak without the king's permission. "Odd thing is, I found different concentrations of residue from different samples. The clothing scraps were mostly deteriorated. It's frustrating to say, but I don't entirely understand these results."

"Could she have been wearing more layers of clothing? That could account for the varying concentrations," Temperance suggested.

"Not the variations I'm seeing," Hodgins rejected. "I ran a couple tests, but nothing would account for these differences. The only solution is that our murderer put different body parts in different parking garages at some time before burying the body."

"That does not make logical sense," Zack countered. "There is no evidence that the victim was mummified or tortured, so dismemberment is not a rational conclusion."

Hodgins rolled his eyes. "But you did admit yourself there are unexplained saw marks on the bones, didn't you?"

Zack leapt to defend his findings. "Yes, but not on entire limbs, as you are suggesting had dismemberment figured into this. I have found a match for the striations on the metacarpals." He turned smartly to Temperance, ignoring Hodgins. "It was made by a handsaw, most likely a hand-powered crosscut saw blade with nine TPI."

"Teeth per inch," Temperance mused, visualizing the blade. Usually Zack had an example of the exact instrument used, but they were not in his usual milieu in the bone room, so she made do with her imagination. "To cut through a finger, you wouldn't need that much force. The injuries were incurred post-mortem?"

"Most likely." Zack refused to commit without more conclusive evidence, but he had accustomed himself to the acceptability of accurate, evidence-based conjectures when warranted.

"Just one finger?" Hodgins cut in. He didn't like Zack upstaging him. "That's weird. You sure you didn't miss any others? Toes, vertebrae? And if our guy were to cut off the victim's finger, why put it back in place for us to find?"

"I have not inspected other bones for similar anomalies," Zack said stiffly. "I have focused on identifying the weapon first." He turned to Temperance. "Dr. Brennan, if you like, I will inspect the rest of the skeleton for similar patterns. I do not feel comfortable making any intuitive conjectures about the murderer's motivations for removing any appendages from the victim."

Temperance nodded at him. "Good job identifying the weapon. Go back and check for other cut marks, and let me know if you find any," she instructed, and waited until Zack left. Temperance looked at Hodgins. "You were kind of harsh on him."

Hodgins jerked a shoulder. The kid just asked for it sometimes. "He'll be fine," he replied, then frowned at Temperance. "How are you, by the way? No leads on the mystery flower sender?"

Booth spoke from the doorway, holding up a file with the Jeffersonian's logo on the front. "None of the prime suspects were anywhere near a florist's shop this weekend. The roses are generic; you can get them at any flower shop." Frustration showed clearly as he strode forward, tossed the folder onto Bones' desk. "I hit up about a dozen local shops. You know how popular roses are this time of year? Too many sorry boyfriends."

Temperance glanced up from skimming the paperwork. "I don't understand the connection."

"Buying your way out of the doghouse," Booth explained shortly. "Jesus, Bones, really." She blinked at him, patently lost, and he blew out a breath, exchanged a glance with Hodgins. Defeated, he said, "Guys buy roses when they say they're sorry. It's a commonly accepted American cultural norm."

"Anthropologically speaking, humans have attempted bribery for centuries." Temperance spoke without looking up from the papers. "Recent studies have also shown correlations between receiving flowers, specifically, and emotional health and longevity. Serotonin, norepinephrine, and dopamine levels have been shown to be influenced by receiving flowers, which relieve feelings of depression and anxiety. It makes sense that men would try to influence a woman's perceptions of emotions in order to change her opinion based on illogical factors rather than rational, empirical evidence."

Booth rubbed a hand over his face, spoke into his palm. "Why do I bother? Why do I even bother?" His phone rang, saving him, and he turned to lever a finger at Hodgins. "Deal with her, will you?" He was shaking his head as he turned away, put the phone to his ear. "Booth."

Rebecca's voice on the other end of the phone had a frown forming between his eyebrows. "Seeley, it's Rebecca. I know you're at work, but I needed to get in contact with you."

"I dropped Parker off at school three hours ago." Booth checked his watch as alarm spurted through him. He paced away from Temperance and Hodgins, shoved his free hand in his pocket and stared at the odd array of artifacts on Temperance's bookshelf. "He okay?"

"I haven't heard otherwise." Rebecca blew out a breath, obviously irritated. "Look, this is stupid. I can't make it back home for another few days." She spoke briefly to someone else, then said to Booth, "I fell and broke my leg. They're keeping me in the hospital, just for observation, but I had to cancel my flights. They're worried about bone fragments and the bloodstream, something like that."

"Hold on." Booth covered the mouthpiece of the phone, turned and said, "Bone fragments and the bloodstream. Two sentences. Quick."

Hodgins was faster. "In a bad bone break, bone fragments can enter the bloodstream. When they get to a smaller artery, they can become lodged, blocking the blood flow, and cause and embolism. Emboli can—"

"Time's up." Booth turned back to the phone. "You need me to fly up, call your sister, something?"

He heard the amusement in her voice. "Same old Seeley," she murmured, and there was a wealth of affection in her words. "I'm fine. Really, I'm fine. They just want to monitor me for a while, make sure things are healing. I just needed to see if you could watch Parker for the rest of the week. I'll call you again when I know when I'll be headed back, but he needs to be picked up from school today, and he's got swimming lessons on Wednesday, and—"

"I'll take care of Parker," Booth interrupted. "You're sure you're okay? You don't need anything?"

"Brent's here with me." He heard the sigh, felt the instant spurt of—irrational—jealousy. "I don't want you to worry, okay? I'll let you know about Parker's schedule. He also has a doctor's appointment tomorrow afternoon—regular check-up and shots. I promised him root beer floats afterwards."

"Yeah, sure, Parker and I'll be fine." Booth ran his hand over his hair. "You call if you need anything, all right? I know we're not…we're not," he said lamely. "But I still care. About you. So you call, if there's anything."

"Thanks, Seeley." She was careful not to commit, not to his sentiments, not to his promise. "I'll let you know about Parker's schedule. School gets out at three-fifteen. He likes being picked up right on time, out front."

Booth hung up, frowning. Temperance spoke from behind him. "You okay?"

Hodgins had left. Booth stuck the phone back in his pocket and sat on the couch, slowly. "Rebecca broke her leg, can't come home, so I'm watching Parker the rest of the week." He fiddled with his tie, ill-concealed nerves. "What the hell's an embolism?"

Temperance came around her desk to sit next to him. Talking about Rebecca was always a little awkward for her. After her initial interference—meddling, she supposed some might call it—Temperance had always sensed talking about the mother of Booth's son was a touchy subject, one that even she respected. "I'm sure Rebecca's receiving fine care, so it's nothing to worry about. Like Hodgins said, bone fragments can get in the bloodstream. It can block blood flow to different parts of the body, depending on where the fragment gets lodged. That can lead to gangrene, resulting in amputation of the affected area, or, if the embolism occurs in a major artery, it can lead to death."

She anticipated Booth's next question, touched her hand to his knee. "It's highly unlikely, but there's nothing the doctors can do to prevent it. They'll just monitor her to make sure that no bone fragments entered her bloodstream. If everything heals properly, and statistically speaking, she will have no complications, she should be released by the end of the week."

Booth brooded a moment longer before making a concerted effort to shake the mood off. "Okay. I have to go get Parker in…" He glanced at his watch. "Two and a half hours. What did Hodgins and Zack find?"

Temperance brought him up to speed, suffering through his frequent interruptions and questions. It took less time than it once would have. Booth was a smart man, and he'd picked up quite a bit from his time working with them in the lab. He still didn't understand all the terminology, but he was getting there.

Hodgins would say that there was hope yet for the man. Temperance liked to think it was because Booth was Booth, and he just had it in him to get the job done, whatever it took.

"FBI forensics is still going through your apartment," Booth said. He hadn't moved from the sofa, tapping his fingers on his knee. "We might want to get Hodgins there, see if he can work his magic and find something useful." He wiggled his restless fingers in the air. "In the meantime, you'll have to stay at my place a while longer."

"I was thinking about asking Angela if I could stay with her." As soon as she said it aloud, Temperance realized her mistake. Booth turned hot eyes on her, and she hastened to say, "Not that I'm not grateful to you, but I don't want to impose for the entire week. And with Parker around, you don't want things to be…complicated."

Booth wrinkled his forehead. "Parker doesn't care," he pointed out. He stared incredulously at her. "Bones, are you embarrassed by what people in the lab might say if they found out? Are you worried about what people might think of you?"

"No, of course not," she spluttered. "Not really. I mean, okay, maybe. A little." Temperance blew out a breath. "We're professionals. You're my partner. Allowing such rumors to spread would be inadvisable. People might start questioning your reliability, our objectivity."

Skeptical, Booth pointed out, "Cam and I were involved, and I didn't hear anybody whispering behind their hands about it."

"That's because they didn't whisper when you were around." Temperance shook her head. "It's not good for you to be sleeping on the couch. Angela barely uses her place, anyway, since she spends so much time at Hodgins'. It'll be fine."

"You're forgetting one thing."

"What?"

"The part about the homicidal maniac trying to blow you up?" Booth reminded her with a shake of his head. "You're safer with me."

"And you are safer without me," Temperance countered. "Booth, some bomb psycho isn't going to be intimidated by you being around. Chances are you'd likely get caught up in it—like last time." She paused to let that sink in. "And you have Parker to think about."

The angry retort died on Booth's tongue, and he clamped his mouth shut while he thought that one over. Temperance patted his shoulder. "I'll talk to Angela, but you think on that one. I'm going to go look at the bones with Zack." She left Booth sitting there, wrestling with his own thoughts.

* * *

To her surprise, Angela wasn't thrilled with the idea of lending her unused apartment to Temperance. Angela looked up from her tablet computer, where she did her renderings for the Angelator. "Sweetie, I think you should stay at Booth's."

"That's not logical. He has to take care of Parker, and Booth has his own life to think about." Temperance shook her head. "We don't even know if that bomb was targeted at me, or if it was some random occurrence."

"Those flowers were for you," Angela countered. "That was not a random bombing. Stay at Booth's, sweetie. Booth won't let anything happen to you or Parker."

Temperance folded her arms across her chest, unconvinced. "I could stay at a motel."

Angela shook her head, set down her tablet to face Temperance. "Look. Booth has an entire FBI team shadowing you wherever you go. He'll have his own apartment staked out, so chances of anybody getting in or out to plant another bomb, or whatever, are slim. It's not every day you get the offer of no-strings-attached protection, especially from a man you're not sleeping with. Booth would step in front of you and take the bullet for you. You know he would, too."

She didn't want to think about that. "I don't want Booth to get shot for me. And there's evidence showing that guns had any role in this case."

Sighing, Angela rose and placed both hands on Temperance's shoulders. "He'd protect you from bomb blasts, too, and you know it. Don't argue, just go back and tell him thank you. Cook him dinner or something to show your appreciation. And if you're worried about people in the lab looking at you two sideways…" Angela's grin flashed. "I'm sure Hodgins and I would be happy to create enough distraction that people won't even notice."

"Thanks, Ange." The smile was crooked, but it was heartfelt. Temperance glanced down at the tablet screen. "How's it coming?"

Angela blew out a breath that ruffled the tendrils of hair curling into her eyes. "Slowly. I can't seem to find any scenario that fits the damage Zack's beamed over to me from the skeleton. What works for some bone damage doesn't explain what we see on other parts."

A call went up from down the lab. It was Zack. "Dr. Brennan! I think you'd like to come see this."

The whole team was in the bone room when Temperance and Angela got there. "What is it, Zack?"

He had magnified views of various bones on the screen. Zack slapped Booth's hand when Booth tried to pick one up. "Don't touch." To Temperance, Zack said, "Dr. Brennan, I was examining the skeleton for other saw marks, as you suggested. The other metacarpals show no signs of cutting, but I found similar striation patterns here, on the _costae fluitante_, left side, number eleven, and also beneath the right patella, at the top of the fibula."

"English, people, English. What do I have to do to get a translator in here?" Booth complained to no one in general.

Temperance stepped up to inspect the cut marks. "Very good, Zack. These bones have definitely been cut. But why were they then replaced?"

"Any other bones bearing cut marks?" Hodgins stepped closer to the table. Booth scowled when Zack didn't slap at Hodgins for bending over until his nose all but brushed the skeletal arm. "How about the humerus?"

"I don't see anything funny," Booth grumbled.

Temperance spared Booth a glance. "Not _humorous_, Booth, _humerus_. The long bone in your arm, from shoulder to elbow. From the Latin root, meaning upper arm, and Gothic _ams_, meaning shoulder. Why the humerus, Hodgins?"

"Because the left humerus shows anomalies in both car exhaust concentrations and damage patterns," Angela replied for him. She flashed a smile at Cam's raised eyebrow. "Aren't you glad we have such strong interdepartmental communication?"

Cam held up a hand. "I don't want to know," she said. "Zack?"

Zack lifted the bone under the camera with gloved hands, inspected the screen. "You're right," he proclaimed. "They're very faint. He was more careful here, only nicked the bone in a couple places. See, here, and here?" He pointed to the screen. Booth saw only bone, but Temperance nodded.

"That still doesn't explain why the bones were cut out and replaced."

"Ritualistic?" Hodgins shook his head to his own question. "Doubtful."

There was a stumped silence. Booth broke in. "What if they weren't replaced?"

Temperance turned to Booth, impatient. "These are not someone else's bones, stuck in as place holders," she told him. "Zack and I have both inspected this skeleton and agree on the conclusion. This is not a case of mixed bones."

"I'm not attacking your reputations." Booth held up his hands for peace. "Just go with me here a minute. They _look_ like they fit—in fact, they likely do. Exactly. But what if these bones, these particular bones, don't belong to Vanessa Hammond?"

Angela was the first to make the leap. "Identical twins?"

Booth tipped his head in her direction. "Exactly."

Temperance shook her head in instant denial. "There are no records of any blood relations."

"But she was adopted." Booth held up a finger. "The adopted parents may not have been aware of a twin. What we need is the records from the hospital where Vanessa was born. No record of biological parents, no contact, right? It's a possibility." He whipped out his phone to make the call to the FBI.

Zack and Temperance exchanged a glance. "The statistical likelihood of twins is less than 3.5%, and the probability of being separated at birth much lower."

"I don't care about your statistics," Booth said as he waited for someone to pick up. "It's a possibility. Hey." He grinned. "You guys find answers in bones, slime, and dirt." Hodgins grinned in response at that. "Here, we make the impossible happen."

* * *

~3.17.11


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes:** I've never done so much research for a story before in my life. Thank you, Google, Wikipedia, and the internet. That said, any factual anomalies are entirely my fault. If I've done something grossly wrong, please let me know, but also, please read with suspended disbelief, understanding that I've had to take some liberties to stretch truth into fiction, as does any writer. Again, these scenes went a little longer than expected, but next chapter, I promise, we're back to murder.

**

* * *

Chapter Four**

"Mr. and Mrs. Hammond, you adopted Vanessa when she was a baby, is that correct?"

Booth had one of the conference rooms in the FBI offices, the sliding glass doors shut at his back for privacy. The couple sat across one end of the table from him, hands clasped together in silent unity. The wife, Nancy, couldn't stop the tears that tracked down her cheeks. The husband, Barry, bore his grief stoically. Booth knew his type, the kind that deflected the emotional pain outward, vilifying those who would try and stand for his daughter in death.

His tone was sharp, his eyes glinting like obsidian in a flame's reflected glare. "Agent Booth, you are already aware of that fact. Did you call us back in here today to ask the same questions? Your time would be better spent hunting down our daughter's murderer. Her _murderer_."

In contrast, Booth's own voice was low, persuasive. "Mr. Hammond, the FBI, in conjunction with the Jeffersonian, is pursuing all channels to find who killed your daughter. Our team of experts at the Jeffersonian has uncovered new information."

"What? What did you find?" Nancy sniffled. Her tear-blurred eyes latched on to Booth.

He inclined his head to Temperance. She leaned forward slightly, drawing the couple's attention to her. "Were you aware that your daughter had an identical twin?"

"What?"

The exclamation came from both of them. Nancy's free hand lifted to her mouth. "That's not…We never heard anything like that." She twisted her face to look at her husband. "When we went to the adoption agency, they never said…An identical twin?"

"We would have adopted both, if we had known," Barry said. He looked at Booth. "You're not asking us this because the sister has stepped forward claiming relation."

"No, Mr. Hammond." Booth kept his hands folded on the table. "We have reason to believe that both your daughter and her identical twin were killed, then buried together." Nancy's weeping began again in earnest, and she turned her face against her husband's shoulder. "Do you recall the names of anyone at the adoption agency who helped you with the process of adopting your daughter? Anyone who might have been aware that Vanessa had a twin, and who would have reason for not telling you about her?"

Barry hugged his wife, murmured to her, before addressing the question. "Talk to Carol. Carol Whistler. She facilitated the adoption. She's the one who said that Vanessa's birth mother was unable to take care of her. She knew we would have loved to have more children, we were willing. But she didn't tell us."

Nancy lifted her face, and her eyes haunted Temperance. "Why would she do that? Why would she keep something like that from us? We're good people, Dr. Brennan. We would have taken care of them both. We would have protected them. We would have tried."

Temperance was quiet as Booth started the car and pulled out into traffic. "I don't see how you can do it," she finally admitted. He glanced at her in interest. "Case after case, deal with the emotionally overwrought parents and other significant people in a person's life. It is entirely unscientific, and I understand that, rationally, you cannot transfer your feelings to someone else, but…grieving parents transfer their emotions out to you. How can you stand it?"

Booth waited at a red light. "Actually, it's _scientifically_ proven that there are these things called mirror neurons. See, if I see you peeling a banana, my brain fires its little brain-transmitter-firing things and _my_ brain acts like I'm the one peeling a banana."

She sat back in her chair, eyed him with newfound respect. "I'm impressed."

Smug, Booth shot her a cocky grin. "See? I'm not that dumb."

"I know you're not dumb," she replied. "Where'd you read about mirror neurons? They have been experiencing quite a surge in popularity in media coverage. I recently read an article about how mirror neuron research is affecting the public education system and common thought on how students learn."

Smug turned to hunch-shouldered embarrassment. "Parker was watching something on the science channel. Anyway," he hurried on before she could comment on that, "what I'm saying is that there _is_ scientific proof about people projecting their emotions. So if they're grieving, then you'll feel like you're grieving."

"So, back to my original question," Temperance stressed. "How do you do it?"

Booth blew out a long breath. "It's got to be done."

"But how do you stand it? Every time. Even you would start to feel it wearing on you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" But Booth shook his head, not willing to start a fight about that. "They deserve to know," he said simply. "And, you know, grieving is part of the process of moving on. Everyone's known grief at one point or other in their lives. And just because my mirror neurons or whatever are firing when I see someone grieving, that doesn't mean it makes it my grief." In a quieter tone, almost to himself, he murmured, "I've got enough of my own as it is."

"You do?" Temperance shifted so she could look at his face. "Like what?"

"Well, that's…That's private, Bones." His tone shifted to scolding. "You don't just ask someone that kind of thing."

"I am your partner," she pointed out. "We are pretty close. That's the sort of thing a good partner shares, isn't it?"

He was silent a minute. "You just said that to make me guilty, like I'm the bad one for not saying anything. Look, it's not like it's fresh grief or anything. It's just…everyone's got stuff in their past that haunts them, all right?" The look he shot her was full of meaning, and dark with shadows. "Some things are better left to rest."

They pulled to the curb in front of the school, in line with dozens of minivans and SUVs. Booth put the car in park, drummed his fingers on the wheel as they observed the deserted school grounds. Booth grinned suddenly. "I remember the end of the school day back in elementary school. We had to put our chairs on the top of our desks, and in second grade, Ms. Allen would check our cubbies to make sure nobody'd forgotten anything."

"I had my favorite set of crayons," Temperance mused. "I was really upset one day, because Joseph Brown stole them and broke them under his foot. He told the teacher it was an accident, but I went home and cried that day."

Protective anger spurted up inside Booth before he could think to stop it. "If we'd been in the same class, I'd've taken that kid into the hallway and beaten the snot out of him."

Surprised, Temperance said, "I don't need you to protect me, Booth, and I didn't then. I chased after him at recess and kicked his sorry, lying, crayon-breaking ass. He had to go to the nurse's office with a bloody lip. I told him if he told on me, I'd bloody his nose next."

"That's my Bones," Booth said with satisfaction.

"Besides, if you were in my second grade class, I wouldn't have had to worry about Joseph Brown."

He smirked. "That's right."

"I'd have had you to deal with."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" Booth sat up straight and glowered at Bones. A bell rang, and the sound of excited children's voices suddenly poured out. The front doors burst open, and children came rushing out, all backpacks and untied sneakers, art projects and excited afternoon shouts. Booth shoved out of the car after Temperance to wait on the sidewalk for his son. "What do you mean by that?"

Temperance watched with interest as the children, as if by magic, found their parents and piled into waiting cars, to be whisked off for their various after-school activities. "You were _that guy_, Booth. You'd have been the one picking on me."

"I would not," he protested. "You're not giving me enough credit. You don't even know what I was like in elementary school."

She eyed him appraisingly. "Well, let me guess. Popular, good-looking, good at sports, charming, smart enough to get around the system. You're the kid who always had friends to eat lunch with, money to buy snacks at the student store, and the coolest sneakers. And to remind people of how cool you were, and how popular, if a nerd or a geek approached you, wanted to play with you and your 'cool' friends…" Temperance moved her shoulders. "You'd put them in their place, wouldn't you?"

Memories flared, uncomfortable ones. Bones jammed his hands in his pockets. "For someone as resistant to making unsubstantiated leaps of logic, you're awfully quick to judge someone," he muttered.

"They're not unsubstantiated," she responded. "On the contrary, I've observed your interactions with people countless times and feel it's not an unfounded conclusion to generalize from my observations of you that you were likely very similar as a child as you are as an adult. That's not an insult," she protested as his face moved into stubborn lines.

Before Booth could open his mouth and set her straight, Parker's voice chimed over the general din. "Dad! Dr. Bones!"

"Hey there, champ." Booth crouched down to give Parker a huge bear hug. "How was school, huh?"

"It was great! We made volcanoes, and they_ erupted_!" Parker grinned up at Temperance, then turned a puzzled frown back to Booth. "What are you doing here, Dad? Where's Mom?"

Booth stayed crouched down, his eyes level on his son's. "Mom can't come home from her vacation yet. She hurt her leg, and she can't get on a plane for a bit. So you get to stay with me this week. How does that sound?"

Excitement lit up Parker's face. "All right, Dad! Can we go to the park? We can practice more throwing with the football."

"After homework," Booth said firmly, ignoring his son's groans. "Your mom was very specific about that. And maybe we should pick up a card and mail it up to her. You think she'd like that?"

"Yeah," Parker agreed enthusiastically. But when Booth moved to help him into the backseat, he hesitated and looked at someone past Booth's shoulder. "Uhm, Mom always lets me wait with Mikhel."

"Who?" Booth glanced around. Most of the children had cleared out fast, leaving only a handful behind, patiently guarded by a walkie-talkie-toting woman with the look of an elementary school administrator about her. "Your friend need a ride?"

Parker shook his head. "Mikhel needs a special car to ride in. His dad is usually late, because he works across town."

Booth tossed Parker's backpack into the car, locked the doors. "Let's go meet your friend, then." As they started up the sidewalk, Booth asked, "Why can't Mikhel ride in a regular car?"

"Mikhel uses a wheelchair," Parker explained. "Hey, Mik!" He waved enthusiastically to a boy waiting by the benches. Parker trotted up and introduced them. "This is my dad and his partner. I call her Dr. Bones."

Booth looked down at Mikhel. He was exceptionally small for a seven-year-old boy, with shockingly pale blond hair and gray-blue eyes that looked too big for his bony face. His hand, when he held it out to Booth in greeting, had only four fully-formed fingers, the pinkie finger shrunken and misshapen.

"Parker talks a lot about his dad," Mikhel said in faintly accented English. His smile was as bright as the summer sun, and turned his face from the aged to the sweet. "Do you really have a gun?"

Booth tried to ignore the fact that the boy was strapped into a wheelchair. "I don't use it to shoot children," he joked, and flipped back his suit jacket to show his gun in his holster at his hip. "You hurt your legs or something?" He nodded at the wheelchair.

Temperance laid a hand on Booth's arm. Her voice was hushed. "Booth. Most likely his development was stunted, perhaps from radiation fallout effects from Eastern Europe on his mother, which were passed on to him in utero. His skeletal structure is definitely impacted, and his muscle development is not at normal growth standards for a child his age, assuming proper nutrition."

"You don't have to whisper," Mikhel said frankly, drawing both adult's attention back to him. "My parents are from the Ukraine," he said, shrugging one shoulder negligently. "I was born there, but we moved here soon after I was born, because my parents said the doctors in the U.S. could help me. I have a wheelchair, and I take swimming lessons with Parker to help my muscles get stronger. The doctor said I may one day be able to walk."

Booth felt incredibly chastised, and insanely humbled. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…"

"It's okay," Mikhel said, with another adult-like shrug. "I'm used to it."

A van pulled up to the front curb, and a man stepped out. He called over to them in a different language, and Mikhel called back. He looked up at Booth. "It's nice meeting you," he said politely, and smiled at Temperance. "You're very smart," he added, then reached down to unlock his wheels. He wheeled himself to where the van, and the man folded down a ramp to the sliding side door. Parker watched with Booth and Temperance as the man locked the wheelchair in from floor-bolted straps, and waved back cheerily to Mikhel before the man shut the door and drove off.

"Mikhel's my best friend," Parker explained as he strapped himself into the backseat of the car. Booth waited until Parker was buckled before starting the car. "He transferred over at the beginning of the year. Some of the other kids picked on him, you know, 'cuz he uses a wheelchair and stuff, but I don't think that matters. I mean, he can't play tag or anything, but he's really smart, and he knows a lot about science and stuff. He says when he grows up, he wants to be a nuclear physicist and work on finding safe ways to use nuclear power."

That was enough to boggle Booth's mind. "And you?" He flicked Parker a glance in the rearview mirror. "You want in on that nuclear physician stuff?"

"Physicist," Temperance corrected. "A physicist works with physics. A physician is a doctor. You know, like a health doctor, the kind you go to see when you're sick."

"I don't need doctors," Booth muttered. "I'm healthy."

"There's nothing to be ashamed about if you're afraid of the doctor," Temperance said reasonably. "Fear of the unknown is common, and many people subscribe to the belief that ignorance is better than finding out that there is something seriously wrong with them. Of course, what you should be afraid of is what's actually happening to your body. The doctor is just the messenger of the news, but the doctor isn't the one that _gives_ you the illness, or whatever."

"Look, I'm not afraid of the doctor," Booth said, with some heat. "And that's not even the issue here. We're talking about Parker, and what Parker wants to do when he grows up. Well, what about it, champ?"

Parker looked up from where he'd dug a book out of his backpack. "I'm gonna be a cop, Dad, just like you, and save people and stop bad guys and stuff." Booth shot Temperance a grin filled with superiority. "But," Parker continued, "maybe I could be a scientist, too, like at the same time. Then I could be really smart, like Dr. Bones, _and_ still catch bad guys!"

Temperance smirked at Booth and just held her tongue.

"These sleeping arrangements are ridiculous."

Booth just grunted and tried to roll over. Temperance slapped her hands on her hips and scowled. "If anyone's going to sleep in this bed, it should be me. This is not going to be any better for your back than sleeping on the couch. Nobody's going to get good sleep this way."

He tried rolling onto his other side. "You will, trust me. So just stop your complaining, and go…cook dinner or something. You offered."

That was just sexist enough to have Temperance's temper rising. "I can't believe you think this is a good idea. I take back anything I ever said about you not being dumb. This is just downright stupid."

Parker popped up from behind Booth's shoulder where they were both crammed into his twin-sized bed. "This is fun!" he exclaimed. "It'll be like Dad and I are camping, only we're sleeping in my bed. And I put my sleeping bag down there—" he pointed at the Spiderman sleeping bag spread out over the rug on the floor "—in case either of us falls out during the night. That way we won't make a big thump and wake you up, Dr. Bones. Can I help you with dinner? Dad says you're making something Korean." He said it all in one long breath, leaving Temperance's head spinning.

"…Vegan," she managed to correct. "I'm making something vegan, because I'm vegan." She eyed the set-up, tried not to snort with laughter at the picture of Booth scrunched up with Parker on the child's mattress with an odd machine-man character on the bedspread. Temperance recognized it as the same as from the aprons in the kitchen. "And yes, you may help."

Parker scrambled over his father, ignoring Booth's exaggerated grunts when he stepped somewhere sensitive, and raced down the hallway in front of Temperance. "You have to wear an apron when you cook," he informed her sagely, stretching to reach the twin aprons hanging from the hooks by the refrigerator.

Temperance helped him with his before donning Booth's. She glanced down at the face displayed over her chest. "And…what is it?" She pointed to the identical image on Parker's.

He grabbed the apron in both hands, stretching it out so she could see better. "It's _Optimus Prime_." The unvoiced _duh_ hung in the air, loud enough even Temperance could hear. He dragged a chair over and stood next to Temperance as she rinsed vegetables in the sink and piled them by the cutting board on the counter. "Mikhel says that it's because of unsafe nuclear power and stuff that he has to use a wheelchair, and his mom is sick a lot. He says scientists don't know how to cure him, but you're a scientist, aren't you, Dr. Bones? You're really smart."

"Well…" Temperance made sure Parker wasn't going to stick a finger in the way before pulling a knife out of the block and chopping the vegetables. "I hate to theorize without collecting more evidence, but at a preliminary guess, I'd say that Mikhel's condition is correlated with the nuclear meltdown at Chernobyl in 1986. The radioactive fallout, or perhaps contamination in the water, would have definitely affected both his mother and his father, and would have been passed congenitally to Mikhel."

"Wow." Parker beamed at Temperance. "No wonder Dad says he gets headaches listening to you talk." He didn't see Temperance's surprise as he added, "He also says you're the smartest person he's ever met, and the most admirable. Which, from Dad, says a lot. Dad knows a lot of admirable people."

Booth spoke from the doorway. "Parker." He waited until both heads turned in his direction. "Ninja Turtles is on. Thirty minutes." He ignored Parker's protests, shooed his son off into the living room, and leaned against the doorway. "My son has a big mouth," he began, hands in his pockets.

Temperance smiled at Booth's typical uncomfortable-male pose as she set a pot on the burner and turned it on. "If you're worried I'm upset because Parker said you told him I give you a headache, you're wasting your time."

"I guess I'm more embarrassed that he blabbed things that I'd told him in confidence."

"That you think I'm smart and admirable?" Temperance told herself she would not blush as she turned to face him, bottle of extra virgin olive oil in hand. "I would think that young children don't make the best keepers of secrets, which you would likely know better than me, as you are Parker's father. I will say I'm flattered that you think that of me." She slid him a glance. "You're fairly admirable yourself, and pretty smart, for a suit."

She smirked as she said it, and Booth snorted rudely even as everything inside went smooth and easy at her words. "I'll take your opinion under advisement," he told her, then reached into his pocket when his phone rang. "Booth." He listened to the voice on the other end, and his eyes were flat when he met Temperance's gaze across the kitchen. "Yeah, thanks."

She heated minced garlic in the oil, but her mind was on the dead. "What is it?"

"Evelyn Morris." He knew the instant Temperance understood; he saw it in her eyes. "We found the twin sister."

* * *

~3.17.11


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes:** Thanks to all who have reviewed! I appreciate the story alert messages, but if you could drop me a thought or two on what works in this story for you, what you want to see happen, what is so out-of-character it makes you vomit...please let me know. Reviews aren't just about making me feel good, they help me grow and learn as a writer. Thanks in advance

**Chapter Five**

**

* * *

**

Temperance woke at six-thirty in the morning, already thinking. Her thoughts had a tendency of percolating while she slept, disjointed fragments coalescing into the united whole in an entirely unexplainable way that resulted in ideas that oftentimes made too much sense. She hadn't dreamed, in fact hadn't moved much during the night. Her neck wasn't as stiff as it had been, but the blankets were as smooth as when she'd first slipped between the covers the night before.

She slipped down the hall, locked the bathroom door behind her and ran the water hot. Steam pumped off her as she soaped and lathered, letting the heat tease out the thoughts that lay just beneath the surface, just beyond her grasp.

She had Parker's friend, Mikhel, on her mind. In her dream, she saw the boy's wheelchair, but instead of Mikhel, it was Vanessa Hammond she saw in her mind—Vanessa and her twin sister, Evelyn. They were tiny, hands and limbs fragile as they maneuvered in identical chairs.

Temperance toweled dry with quick, efficient movements, wrapping the towel around her damp hair and dressing in the bathroom as the steam swirled around her and fogged the mirror. She wanted to get to the lab to check her hypothesis against the evidence. Her mind on the day, she stepped out of the bathroom, pajamas bundled against her chest.

She nearly stumbled over Parker, sleepily wandering down the hallway. "Parker?" She whispered it, surprised to see him up already.

Parker looked over, yawning hugely. He rubbed his eyes, the movement petulant, sweet enough to have her heart melting. "Morning, Dr. Bones," he mumbled.

"Why are you up?" She steered him back down the hall towards his room. She realized he had a blanket clutched in his fist. "It's early still."

"Dad's hogging the pillow," he mumbled. They came to the doorway to his bedroom, ajar, and Temperance peeked in. Booth lay on his back, sprawled over the narrow mattress, the blankets tangled around his waist. He wore no shirt, and Temperance refused to be distracted by the sight of his bare chest as she guided Parker back to the bed. She reached down and gave Booth a nudge with one hand. He mumbled, unmoving, and she pushed harder. "Move over," she muttered.

Booth's eyes flew open, muscles tense, and his hand moved over and down, reaching for the gun he didn't have with him. His eyes focused on Temperance. "Bones?" He looked around blearily, scrubbed a hand over his face. "What?"

Temperance steadied her breathing. He'd thrown off sleep, awakening the way a man did who was used to facing danger at every moment. More than anything, that one instant showed her just who her partner was. "You're hogging the bed," she managed, and patted Parker on the shoulder.

"Oh." Booth grinned at his son, wriggled over on the bed to make room. "Sorry." He checked the bedside clock, scowled sleepily at Temperance. "Too early," he muttered, and tucked Parker under his arm. "If you're up, make coffee." He shut his eyes and, to all appearances, went straight back to sleep.

Temperance watched them a moment. From sharp-eyed and hard-edged to sound asleep in ten seconds flat. She shook her head, shut the door behind her, a smile on her lips. _That's my Booth,_ she thought, with an astonishing sense of proprietary pride. Maybe he looked like the proverbial high school jock, but on the inside, he was one big sweetheart.

Not, Temperance told herself, that he ever needed to know that.

* * *

They dropped Parker off at school, with a reminder to be prompt that afternoon because they were headed to the doctor's immediately afterwards. Parker's pout had abated somewhat at the promise of root beer floats. Booth drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he and Temperance headed for the lab.

"What's the matter?" It wasn't like Booth to be edgy. Not without reason, at least.

Booth shot her a glance. "You seem to have a pretty set idea of what you think I was like in school." He shot the car forward through a yellow light, barreled down the hill faster than was wise.

Temperance just lifted an eyebrow and faced him. "You didn't tell me I was wrong," she pointed out. "I was just generalizing from experience and observation." He didn't respond, face tense, and she blew out a breath. Sometimes conversing with Booth was like reassembling a shattered skeleton—painstaking and often frustrating. "Am I wrong?"

"Yes." He shot her a look before sliding his sunglasses out of his pocket and slipping them on. He focused on the road ahead. "When I was in second grade, there was this kid. His name was Thomas Williams. He was a little guy, always getting picked on. I guess he had some sort of disability—he spoke funny, he was real slow, he couldn't hit the ball or run the bases at recess. He couldn't walk right, and he showed me his leg braces one day—big, ugly metal things that left these painful-looking bruises."

Booth fell silent, and Temperance prompted, "And?"

"Thomas Williams was my closest friend. He died, when we were in third grade. Went in to the hospital one day, never came back to school." It still closed his throat off, and Booth stared hard at the road. "Some of the other kids called him 'retard' or 'dumbpants.' I beat Foster Brigham up so bad he couldn't come to school for two days."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Sympathy stirred. There was very real regret in Booth's voice, and she knew there was more there than his terse explanation of his friend's death. "I'm sorry, Booth."

He made a concerted effort to shake it off. "Well, that was then. We've got more than enough to deal with right now. Vanessa Hammond and Evelyn Morris. Evelyn's adopted mother is coming in for an interview." He slid Temperance a glance. "You don't have to be there when I tell her."

"I can handle it." She'd thought about that, too, while she slept. She smiled at him. It was a small smile, but it was there. "You shouldn't have to do it all on your own."

They swung by his office first to review the file on Evelyn Morris. Booth read aloud as they waited for the elevators to take them to the conference room level. Since Mrs. Morris had come in voluntarily, and was not under any suspicion in her daughter's disappearance—yet; Booth reserved judgment until he'd spoken to the woman—they didn't need an interrogation room.

"Evelyn Morris, twenty-nine. Adopted at birth by Catherine Morris, sixty-two, widowed. Husband, Jeffrey Morris, died in 2001. He was a firefighter in New York." Booth paused, a respectful moment of silence for a hero fallen in the line of duty. "Catherine moved to D.C. in 2003 to be closer to her daughter, Evelyn, who worked as a veterinary assistant downtown." He noted the name and address of the veterinary office. "Reported Evelyn missing back in February."

"Fits the timeline," Temperance replied. She nipped in and punched the button before Booth did when the entered the elevator. He scowled at her. "Our estimate puts time of death middle of February. If Evelyn's mother had been in regular contact, she would have been worried right away."

"Or she could be covering her ass," Booth pointed out. He flipped the file shut and waved it meaningfully at Temperance as the approached the conference room. "Remember, no jumping to conclusions, Bones." He slid the door in, ushered her in before him.

"Mrs. Morris." Booth smoothed his tie as he took a seat across from the woman who sat, completely still, watching him through wide, deep brown eyes. Her undyed hair was pulled back severely from her face in a tight bun, reminding him of nuns at Catholic school. Her hands, unpainted nails, adorned only with a single gold band on her left ring finger, lay clasped on the tabletop. "Special Agent Seeley Booth; my partner, Dr. Temperance Brennan, with the Jeffersonian Institute. Thank you for coming in."

"You said you had something to tell me about my daughter." Catherine Morris spoke crisply, her eyes level on Booth's face. "I assume the FBI would not squander my time needlessly. As I also assume that you did not request a meeting to inform me that my daughter is safe and alive, run off somewhere, perhaps with that irresponsible boyfriend of hers, I wish that you be succinct and thorough. What happened to my daughter, and when can I give her a proper burial?"

Temperance exchanged a swift glance with Booth. They had interviewed countless parents, and Temperance had done her research on the various ways grief manifested itself, but this cold, impersonal response was a first for her. "Mrs. Morris," Temperance began. "We are unable at this time to give you many details about how your daughter died. As soon as we are able, we will inform you when the remains will be released to you."

"Then we do not have much to discuss."

"Mrs. Morris, please." Booth gestured to the seat as she stood. "We have a few questions for you." He waited until she sat down again. "You reported your daughter missing…" He flipped through the papers, although the date was fresh in his mind. "February 22, this year."

"Yes." She met his eyes squarely. "We had plans to meet for dinner and to go to the ballet. I called the previous night, to confirm our plans, and she did not answer or return my calls. That was highly unusual for her. The next morning, I went by her apartment myself. I try not to intrude on her privacy, but I was concerned. I had good reason to. When I let myself into her apartment, I could see she had not been home the night before. I called the police immediately to report her missing."

"How could you tell she hadn't been home?"

Catherine's eyes never left Booth's. "Evelyn was a very organized, very meticulous girl. She had had a thyroid cancer removed when she was younger, and she takes a pill every day to supplement her thyroid hormone production."

"Thyroid cancer," Temperance commented. "That's rather uncommon for someone Evelyn's age."

Catherine slid Temperance a brief, contemptuous glance. "Evelyn was adopted," she said shortly. "You can never be sure what her birth mother may have been into while she was pregnant. Her behaviors may have contributed to, even caused, Evelyn's health issues."

"Health issues?" Booth prompted.

"Minor issues," Catherine replied. She returned her gaze to Booth's. "She was never very strong, physically, and she was prone to colds, the flu, whatever seasonal illness was circulating."

Her gaze really was disconcerting. Booth found himself fighting the urge to squirm like a disobedient child called into the principal's office. "Mrs. Morris, you mentioned a boyfriend?"

She made a noise, elegant but disdainful. "Tyrone Fisher. If you are looking into my daughter's death, you should take a long, hard look at Tyrone. He was bad news, and no matter how many times I told her that, Evelyn never listened." For the first time, emotion eked through, and Catherine's eyes unfocused, turned introspective. "She was a good girl, obedient, competent, quiet. But just this once, she never listened."

* * *

"Tyrone Fisher." Booth had the file in hand as he followed Temperance into the lab. "Got a rap sheet as long as the Nile, mostly petty stuff. Did some time for drug possession, drunk and disorderly, here's a good one—public nudity."

Temperance glanced over her shoulder as she swiped her card and jogged up the steps to the central platform. "Some people believe that we are born naked and should not be restricted by societal norms to hiding natural beauty with manmade clothing and synthetic fabrics, which are harmful to the environment and to people's health. Adam and Eve are often depicted as being naked," she added, thinking Booth might relate to the religious reference.

"And some people are crazy," Hodgins opined from his station. He swiveled around in the chair. "Got some news about your bomb."

"Adam and Eve were the first people, so therefore, there weren't others around to judge them for their lack of clothing," Booth pointed out.

Temperance lifted an eyebrow. "Adam and Eve were human, weren't they?"

"Yes." Booth rolled his eyes.

"Did they judge each other for their lack of clothing?" Since Booth was rendered satisfactorily dumbfounded, Temperance turned to Hodgins. "What about the bomb?"

"Totally generic."

Booth thwapped Hodgins on the back of the head, much as Hodgins was wont to hit Zack. "What the hell is that? You said you had something to tell us."

Hodgins scowled at Booth. "Lay off, dude."

"_Don't_ call me dude."

Temperance stepped between them. "Hodgins. The bomb?"

Hodgins scowled over her shoulder at the glowering Booth a moment longer before swiveling back to the computer. He typed rapidly, speaking as he did, "The materials used are very generic, common to any homemade bomb. You can get the basic recipe off the internet. You can get anything off the internet these days, you know? Components, explosives, even the parts to build it. You see, our guy used the ever-popular pipe bomb, which is surprisingly effective, because it sprays shrapnel when the pipe's integrity fails. The pipe used is very generic steel pipe, likely 1-inch diameter, used in common household plumbing and available in various lengths at any local hardware store. Zack and I are working on an experiment to determine the exact method of capping the pipe, which can significantly vary the bursting pressure of the pipe…"

"Hodgins…" Booth started in warning.

"Yeah, yeah, right." Hodgins called up a website. "With my infinite wisdom and prowess, however, I was able to narrow down the exact composition of this particular generic, homemade bomb."

Booth leaned over Hodgins' shoulder. "To the Temperance Brennan fansite?"

"To the fansite," Hodgins confirmed. He looked at Temperance. "Dr. Brennan, you do an exceptional job outlining how to build pipe bombs in your latest novel. Your dedicated and slavish fans have entire forums for the sole purpose of debating what they think your preferred and/or originally anticipated formulas for explosives are, based on references from the scene in the book, amount of damage catalogued, things like that. This particular guy—" He scrolled down one of the forums until he found the post he wanted "—seems particularly vehement, and knowledgeable."

Booth read as Hodgins called up the user's personal information. "Brennanguy227," he read. "And," he added, fixing Temperance with a long look, "he lives in D.C."

* * *

Zack had news for them as well, and Booth only somewhat reluctantly followed Temperance to the bones room. He had to steel himself for the impending headache, but Booth would suffer the tortures of the damned before admitting to anyone that he was growing rather fond of the nerdy Zack Addy, with his odd sense of humor and complete lack of awareness of his own social oddness.

"Dr. Brennan, I found an anomaly on the first victim's left talus." Zack pointed to the magnified bone on the screen, and he and Temperance peered myopically at it while Booth stayed back, hands in pockets. "There are no cut marks, but when I was re-examining the bones more closely, I noticed here what looks like an old break on the bone, likely from when the victim was a child. I do not understand why I did not see this anomaly sooner."

"It's not too bad," Temperance murmured, tilting her head to examine the screen from a different angle. "Likely a fracture when she was six or seven." Temperance glanced back at Booth. "There was no record that Vanessa Hammond fractured her ankle when she was a child."

Booth lifted an eyebrow. "But Evelyn Morris did," he said. He frowned at the skeletons laid side-by-side on the examining table. "We've got our names wrong."

Zack bristled at the suggestion of error. "We were working under the information provided us, which did not include an identical twin. The mistaken nomenclature does not change the findings."

"I'm not disparaging your masculinity, which wouldn't take much if I tried," Booth argued. "I'm just saying, what good does it do to know whose skeleton this is? It still has random switched body parts."

"Perhaps they're not random," Temperance argued, and went to inspect the indicated swapped bones, flagged with small pink markers. "Perhaps they had some significance to the killer, or even the victims themselves."

"Does it matter which skeleton is who?" Booth wondered aloud. "They're still both dead."

Temperance spoke rapidly as she peeled off her gloves. "They were found in different locations of the swamp. Hodgins can analyze the surrounding dirt and maybe can tell us more about each victim's death."

Booth exchanged a glance with Zack. Zack looked faintly puzzled. "Dr. Brennan normally compliments me," he murmured, sounding just a bit forlorn.

Booth shook his head and turned to follow Temperance out. He nearly collided with her head-on when she came popping back into the doorway. "Zack? Good job. Let's get name tags for both skeletons so we won't confuse them, and I'll get Hodgins on sifting particulates for us."

Zack's grin sprang onto his face, and Booth thought he heard a murmured, "King of the Lab," before he hurried after Temperance.

"Bones? Bones, what's the hurry?" His long legs ate the ground between him and Temperance, but he still had to push himself to keep up with her.

She cast him a sideways glance. "You want us 'squints' to do all the work?" she asked, half-teasing. "Don't tell me you don't have an ID on our mysterious forum-user, Brennanguy227."

"It's been less than fifteen minutes!" Booth protested. He caught a glimpse of someone in Temperance's office as they passed, reached out and grabbed her elbow to halt her forward progress. She swung around to face him, faintly irritated. "Getting a warrant to sniff out someone's identity from an online username takes time," he told her. "I think there's someone who wants to talk to you." He jerked his chin towards her office, where a couple waited. "Let's see what they want."

Temperance preceded Booth into her office. "Do you need something?"

The man stood, straight-backed, hands clasped loosely behind him, in front of the bookshelf. He seemed to have been inspecting the cluster of framed photos Temperance had there, pictures of her and her team. He turned at Temperance's question. His face was tanned and unlined, his hair, gray sprinkled liberally through black, was combed back neatly. He wore dark gray slacks and a matching suit jacket. When he spoke, he spoke in heavily accented English.

"Dr. Temperance Brennan?" His voice held measured patience, as if he weighed every word before he spoke.

"Yes. My partner, Special Agent Seeley Booth." She glanced from the man to the woman sitting on the couch, still as stone, with her hands clasped lightly on her uncrossed knees. "Can I help you with something?"

"My name is Hiroto Takeda." The man moved to stand by the couch, made no move to touch the woman sitting there. "This is my wife, Akiko." His gaze moved from Temperance to Booth, chocolate brown showing no hint of emotion.

"We have come to speak with you regarding our son's murder."

* * *

~3.19.11


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Both Booth's phobia and Brennan's mention of snakes refer to episodes in Season 3. This breaks the continuity of my story, because I'm not getting into any of that freaky Gormogon stuff, but I beg your indulgence. Also, Booth is wrong about Indiana Jones' profession. That was intentional.

**Chapter Six

* * *

**

"Dad, we're going to be late."

"Yeah. No, we're not." Booth sat at the wheel, facing the building. He glanced at where Parker fidgeted in the backseat. "We've got time."

"We can wait inside," Parker whined. It was hot in the car, with the engine off and the sun beating down on them. "And they have toys to play with." He didn't understand why they had to sit outside in the hot, boring car.

Booth forced himself to reach for the keys in the ignition, act casual. "Okay, okay, if you're in such a hurry." But he made no move to unlock the doors.

In the passenger seat, Temperance twisted her hair into a ponytail. "There's no reason to be afraid of the doctor," she said calmly. "You're not the one getting shots."

"I'm not afraid of doctors," Booth retorted quickly—too quickly. He met Temperance's bland gaze. "I spend all day with you, and you're a doctor."

"I'm not that kind of doctor," she pointed out, and hit the door unlock. "Parker, if Booth is afraid, I'll take you in."

Parker shifted an incredulous glance from Temperance to his dad. "Dad's not afraid of the doctor," he defended staunchly, though his eyes gave away his misgivings. "Dad's not afraid of _anything_."

"Everyone has a fear of something," Temperance countered easily. "Your father suffers from coulrophobia, for instance. The fear of clowns," she elaborated at Parker's blank look. "Some people are afraid of heights, or spiders."

"What are you afraid of, Dr. Bones?"

That one had her shutting her mouth for a moment. Temperance met Booth's gaze, but saw no mockery or malice in his. _He knows,_ she thought, with a surprising lack of vulnerability at the knowledge that Booth knew her deepest, darkest secrets. He knew her biggest fear was of abandonment, of the hurt that came when she reached out to trust and instead faced only rejection.

"I have been known to act irrationally when faced with snakes," Temperance admitted finally. "Fear redirects blood flow in the brain to the more primitive amygdala, overriding and limiting rational thought. A common battle tactic is to confuse the enemy with fear, often claimed to be 'psychological warfare,' and while they are rendered immobile and cognitively less functioning, to overpower them with physical strength."

"Bones." Booth held up a hand to still the flow of words. "Target audience? Think about who you're talking to here. Come on, Parker." He shoved his door open, stepped out into the bright. "I'm not afraid of doctors."

It was something for Parker to think about, but it made him feel better about slipping his hand into his father's as they headed through the sliding glass doors into the chilly, air-conditioned interior of the doctor's office. He peeked up at his father as Booth spoke with the receptionist. His dad, an FBI special agent, was afraid of doctors? And _clowns_? If even his dad was scared of doctors, then maybe it was okay to admit, to himself, that he'd squeaked the last time he'd come to the doctors for a shot. Maybe it was okay to say that he was scared, a little, of coming to the doctors, even if they did give him lime lollipops afterwards.

"Go on and play." Booth gave Parker a pat on the shoulder, then walked with Temperance to the small sitting area to wait for the nurse to call them. The waiting area had a number of chairs, a low table with magazines scattered on top. A wall-mounted TV showed the latest news reports, something about an attempted bank robbery, followed by a short clip on a series of house break-ins in a hoity-toity uptown neighborhood.

Temperance settled in the chair beside Booth, waited until he poured them both paper cups of coffee from the pot in the corner. "You could show Parker your more vulnerable side," she told him as she accepted the cup from him. He snorted, and she prompted, "It wouldn't hurt him to see you not as invincible and infallible, but as human, too. Children can be intimidated by the image of their parents as all-knowing and perfect. Such thoughts can lead to damaging representations of a child's self-perception and confidence."

Booth sipped bad coffee, his gaze on his son, playing with the building blocks at the far end of the waiting area. "I'm not some pussy weakling. Parker's got a strong dad."

Angela had mentioned, more than once, the power of a man's ego. Temperance didn't put much stock into psychology and all that, but she could understand, logically, that some people were not as rational as she. "He knows that. But you don't need to be afraid of showing him that you're not infallible."

The look he shot her was full of aggravation. "What's with you and talking about being afraid all the time?" His shoulders itched, a sure sign of his discomfort. He smothered it by taking a longer gulp of coffee that scalded his throat and left a bitter aftertaste on his tongue. Doctor's office coffee was nearly as bad as cop house coffee. "Something you want to talk about?"

"I think it's more something you _don't_ want to talk about," she replied. She sipped her coffee, made a face, and patted him reassuringly on the knee. "I'll leave it for now. Did you bring the file on Kazuya Takeda?"

"There are too many dead people involved," Booth muttered. "It's in the car."

Temperance watched the woman enter the waiting area. She had an infant in a stroller, a toddler firmly by the hand. An older child, obviously bored, slumped into a seat a couple chairs down with an exaggerated exhalation of affected disgust and a toss of her fine blond hair. "It's odd how Vanessa Hammond's parents never mentioned the fiancé."

"You know families, Bones." Booth gave up on the coffee and set his cup down on the low table beside him, stretched out his legs. He thought doctors intentionally ordered the most uncomfortable chairs possible for waiting rooms. "Family dynamics are hairy deals. From what Mr. Takeda said, they didn't communicate much with each other. My guess? Vanessa's parents didn't approve of her fiancé. Maybe his parents didn't approve of her."

She thought about it. "You're better at the people-reading thing than me," she admitted. "But I could see how that might play a part. Of course, people in murder investigations are all too often eager to point fingers at each other. If they didn't get along, wouldn't it have been Vanessa's parents' first reaction to implicate the fiancé?"

"Unless they were trying to hide something. Or maybe they didn't know," Booth added. He frowned. "That's something to ask them."

Temperance lifted her eyebrows. "You think they didn't know about their daughter's fiancé?"

"Kids keep all sorts of things from their parents." Booth shot Temperance a glance, a half-grin on his face. "Come on, Bones, you didn't tell your mom and dad everything when you were a kid, did you? Especially if it was something you thought they'd disagree with."

Her face went flat and hard. "My parents left when I was young," she reminded him. "I didn't have much chance to keep secrets."

Undeterred, Booth crossed his legs at the ankles. He caught the young mom across the waiting room cast a surprised glance at his socks, flashed her a grin that had her cheeks pinking. "You were fifteen. That's old enough to be keeping secrets, especially when it would have concerned a _boy_."

Temperance blew out a breath, shot Booth a glance. She knew that grin on his face, that gleam in his eyes. She bumped his shoulder with hers, part reprimand, part laughter. "You're thinking about all the girls you kept secret from _your_ parents. I thought it was against the Catholic religion to engage in premarital sex."

"Okay, Bones." He shot a meaningful glance around the room. "Keep your voice down, would you?"

She looked around, unimpressed. "Booth, we're in a pediatrician's office. Obviously, any adult in the room is well aware of both the act and consequences of engaging in unprotected sexual activity."

The nurse standing in the doorway interrupted. "Parker Stinson?"

Parker looked up. The look he shot Booth was one of barely concealed fear, and Booth's heart tripped as he levered himself out of the chair. "Come on, champ."

Parker let his dad squeeze his hand reassuringly, then looked over his shoulder when Temperance made no move to stand. "Aren't you coming, Dr. Bones?"

She looked startled. "I assumed I would wait for you out here."

Booth crooked a finger. "Let's go, Bones."

The nurse spoke in that eternally peppy voice that grated on Booth's nerves as she led them down the hallway. "And how are we today, Parker?"

"Fine."

"We'll take good care of you today, don't you worry a thing." She gestured him up to the scale to measure height and weight. "You're growing right nice," she informed him, and gestured them into a room. "I'm just going to take your blood pressure and check your eyes and nose, then we'll call Dr. Handel in. We've got a couple shots to give you, but they won't hurt a bit."

"Technically, that's not true," Temperance contradicted. She ignored Booth's hissed attempts to shush her. "You will be inserting a metal needle to inject foreign chemical directly into his bloodstream. The penetration will cut skin and muscle, which results in damage to the nerves, which causes pain. Your reassurances would be more accurate if you said that the pain will likely be negligible, and certainly temporary."

The nurse blinked her eyes at Temperance, then looked at Parker with a strained smile. "Is this your mother?"

Parker shook his head, his smile bright. "Nuh-uh. That's Dr. Bones. She's my dad's partner. She's really smart. She's right. It does hurt, but only for a little bit. And I'll get a lollipop afterwards, right?"

The nurse shifted a chilly look at Temperance. She set her clipboard on the counter with a clatter and reached for the arm band to take Parker's blood pressure. "We'll make sure you get your lollipop, Parker. Now, I need you to roll up your sleeve and breathe deep."

* * *

Temperance had the files spread around her on the couch when Booth came out from putting Parker to bed. "You have a good voice for reading bedtime stories," she commented distractedly as she held an X-ray up to the light to inspect for microscopic fissures in the bone that would indicate post-mortem trauma to the skeleton. "Deep, even, and smooth. I can see why it would lull Parker to sleep, even if your choice of story matter was questionable."

"Parker chose the story, all right?" Booth lifted files so he could sit beside Temperance on the sofa, scowled at her through the X-ray transparency. "And he likes mystery stories." Temperance didn't acknowledge that, and he changed tactics. "We've got a lead on the missing fiancé."

"Kazuya Takeda." Temperance lowered the X-ray, looked over at the file in Booth's hands. Together they looked at the photograph attached to what paperwork there was. She saw a young, handsome man, classic Asian looks, with a bright grin and wind-tousled hair. "Why would no one report him missing?"

"He wasn't a U.S. citizen," Booth replied. "His parents didn't think it was unusual for him not to be in contact, and they knew he was on vacation with Vanessa. They said they only became concerned when the school called to inform them that he hadn't shown for work that day."

"High school math teacher," she mused, looking at his credentials.

Booth scowled at the squiggles on the page. "You read Japanese?"

"Japanese borrowed heavily from the Chinese written system." Temperance scanned the page. "The meaning should be more or less the same, though I'll have someone in the East Asian department at the Jeffersonian translate these for us in the morning. Maybe we will find some information here."

"Probably not," Booth countered. "The connection's with Vanessa and Evelyn."

"You're making intuitive leaps," she chided lightly. "We cannot rule out any possibility of other links until the evidence proves otherwise." Booth rolled his eyes, and to forestall the inevitable argument, Temperance changed the subject. "Did you find anything out about the online person? Brennanguy227?"

"Got the warrant," Booth said. "Tech guy called, said they're tracking IP addresses, whatever those are. I don't—" he held up a hand to stop Temperance's explanation "—want to know. He said they're making some progress, but it'll take some time to narrow it down. He said they'll call first thing in the morning if they find anything. How about Hodgins?"

Temperance had checked back in with the Jeffersonian on their way home from the doctor's office. "Running tests," she said with a sigh. "It'll take until the morning for the computer to compile the statistics, so I sent him home. We need to find Kazuya's body, if he's dead."

"Chances are, if he's not the killer, he's not alive," Booth said. He scooped up files and dumped them all onto the coffee table. "Well, nothing to do but wait until tomorrow, then."

Temperance watched as Booth got up from the sofa and moved to the entertainment center. "What are you doing?"

"Popping in a DVD," he said. "No point in wasting an evening looking over files when we can take a breather. How about it?" He held up a DVD with a grin. "_Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade._ He's an anthropologist, you know."

"I've never read any of his papers." Temperance looked intrigued, missed the astonished expression on Booth's face. "Although relics from the purported Last Crusade are more likely the domain of an archaeologist, rather than an anthropologist, though I do admit there is some overlap between the two fields…"

"Bones." Booth shook off his stupor. "Indiana Jones is a fictional character. From a movie. Played by Harrison Ford." He shook the DVD. "This isn't some documentary."

"Oh." She sat back, battled the mild embarrassment. "You could have said so."

Booth resisted the urge to drop his head into his hands. "I thought it was obvious," he muttered to know one, kneeling to insert the DVD into the player. "Sometimes, Bones, you're too much."

She assumed that was some sort of phrase she didn't understand, so instead kept quiet. Booth flicked off the lights, then brought over a throw to spread over her lap as he started the movie.

She leaned over once, as the opening scene drew to a close, and whispered in Booth's ear, "I told you. He's an archaeologist."

Booth rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help the grin. _That's my Bones,_ he thought. "Just enjoy the movie, will you?" He told her, but he didn't protest when she leaned her head lightly against his shoulder. "Not everything is about right and wrong."

* * *

The call came in at three-forty-four in the morning. Booth answered as he rolled out of bed and stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. "Booth." He leaned back against the wall, shut gritty eyes as he listened to the report. "Got it. I'll…" He remembered Parker, bit back the oath. "I'll give my partner a call."

Temperance was a light sleeper. She poked her head out of the bedroom, hair mussed around her face. She yawned hugely. "What is it?"

Booth flipped his phone shut. "They found Kazuya Takeda's body."

Her eyes sharpened, sleep banished. "Where?"

His face was stark. "In front of the Jeffersonian."

They drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Booth thought about his son, asleep in the backseat, blanket wrapped around him. He thought about Rebecca, in the hospital, and how she'd likely react if she found out he'd brought Parker along with him to a crime scene. He thought about Temperance, sitting in stony silence that went beyond respect for Parker's slumber. She would worry, in her own way, about the body being found in front of the Jeffersonian. She was being targeted, and that made Booth mad.

Nobody messed with his partner and got away with it.

* * *

Temperance had sleeked her hair back into a ponytail, changed pajamas for jeans and a sweater. She had her kit, including the full-body jumpsuit, in the trunk if she needed it. The FBI had secured the scene, and there wasn't much traffic in front of the Jeffersonian Institute at four in the morning.

"Who found the body?" she whispered it, checking over her shoulder to make sure Parker wouldn't overhear.

Booth glanced at his son in the rearview mirror. "A couple drunk college kids," he muttered. "Drug test'll likely turn up positive. Screaming brought out your night shift security guy, who called it in."

"You call Cam in?"

"I thought I'd let her sleep until we saw the body." Booth pulled up in front of the Jeffersonian. Floodlights had been set up around the parameter, and yellow caution tape stretched gaudily on the front steps. The sound of the fountain splashing was eerie in the stark bright-and-dark of the crime scene. Booth turned off his red and blue lights, shut off the engine. "If there's enough flesh left, I'll give her a call."

Temperance glanced back when Booth made no move to get out of the car. "Aren't you coming?"

Booth looked back at the sleeping Parker, felt duty tug in opposite directions. Temperance followed his gaze, and her heart softened. "Parker's a smart boy," she said. "He'll know how to find you if he wakes up before we're done here."

Still, he hated to leave. Booth reluctantly followed Temperance to the scene, stopping to leave explicit instructions with one of the on-scene agents to inform him immediately if Parker got out of the car. Temperance was already pulling on latex gloves when he caught up to her, crouched beside the badly decomposed body.

"Oh." He averted his head as the all-too familiar stench of rotting flesh rose up to him. "God, that's nasty."

"Early thirties, Asian, male," Temperance catalogued dispassionately. The stench rose around her, nauseating and overpowering, and she breathed through her mouth. "Amount of decomp would suggest time of death about a week ago."

Booth pulled out his field notebook, wrote down Temperance's observations for his own records. "Same as our twins."

Temperance spared him a glance. "Hand me a bag?" Booth dug into her kit for an evidence bag, and she carefully slid a soaked, decomposing wallet into it, held it up for him to seal. "We'll have Hodgins analyze the goop here, but he certainly wasn't killed here."

"Not enough blood," Booth agreed, looking at the pavement. He tilted his head, inspecting the position of the body. He'd worked with Temperance long enough, had seen enough dead bodies, to recognize some of the signs. "He was dumped here. Probably out of a car, if you look at the positioning of the body."

Temperance managed a smile. "Very good," she commented. "From the amount of goop—" she uncapped a jar, scooped in some of the slime that oozed off the body "—I'd say it's likely this guy was dumped in the same swamp as the twins, then brought here and dumped. He'd definitely been dead for a while before he showed up here." She sat back on her heels. "But if he was already dead, why pack him up into a car and move him so he'd be found?"

Booth shook his head at her naivete. "Look around you, Bones."

She did, frowned. She saw what she expected to see at an FBI crime scene—cops, cop cars, caution tape, bright lights. She looked back at Booth. "What am I supposed to see?"

"We're in front of the Jeffersonian."

"I'm aware of that." She wondered if Booth needed more sleep. "That doesn't explain why the body was moved."

"I think it does." And he didn't like it. Booth crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the dead man on the ground in front of him. "Someone sent this here, to you, as a message, Bones. They're throwing down the gauntlet—they're testing you."

It made her blood chill, but Temperance had dealt with psychopaths and before. "We can't jump to that conclusion. I'm not the only one at the Jeffersonian working this case. We have to assume any one of us might be the target of the message."

"Only one of you has a fansite," Booth pointed out, and watched as Temperance digested that little fact. He blew out a breath and turned to look up at the imposing front façade of the Jeffersonian, standing mute witness to the horrors at their feet.

"I think it's time we find out who Brennanguy227 is."

* * *

~3.19.11


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Another inconsistency, as we are not aware that Booth has a brother at this point in the series timeline (I'm on episode 9, Season 3), but the moment was too good to resist. My apologies for the break in the fabric of the time-space continuum, but Spock is on his way to repair it.

**

* * *

Chapter Seven**

Cam was taking scrapings when Booth got into the lab, coffee in hand. He'd dropped one off with Temperance in the bone room, going over the twins' skeletons with Zack. His only hope was the extra strong brew would help wake him up. It was only ten in the morning, and he'd been all over the city—back to his apartment for breakfast, dropping Parker off at school, to the FBI offices for their weekly meeting and to pick up the completed files on their online stalker.

"You said you had something?" Booth glanced around. The autopsy room always made his stomach turn, just a little. The _idea_ of internal organs being weighed, stomach contents investigated, brains sitting on the scale oozing all matter of nasty, slimy ooze just had his gag reflex engaging. "Where's the rest of the team?"

"I'll inform them later." Cam was scrubbed up, hair back, gloves up to her elbows as she dealt with the sludge and the slime of the very ripe dead. It didn't escape her notice that Booth hung way back from the autopsy table. "I had something to talk with you about, just you."

Booth had an uncomfortable feeling. "This isn't going to quickly become awkward, is it?"

Cam laughed and noted the weight of the liver, or what was left of it. "Angela mentioned that Dr. Brennan is staying at your place while hers is off-limits."

"We're not…you know." Booth felt his eye twitch. "Camille. We're partners. We're not…"

"Sexual partners." Cam spoke matter-of-factly. "I wasn't insinuating any of the sort—though there have been murmurings around the lab about you two. What you and Dr. Brennan do on your personal time is none of my business, as long as it doesn't interfere with your professional relationship. What I'm asking about is what the risk factor really is for Dr. Brennan, and for the rest of the team. Do you think there is a higher than normal risk for us on this case?"

Booth sipped coffee, winced as Cam slid gooey remains into an oversized glass beaker for weighing. "Not for the rest of you, but this guy is very likely targeting Bones."

"You think so?" Cam paused, hands covered in muck. She measured the flinty look in Booth's eyes, sighed. "You aren't joking. You think Dr. Brennan is in danger."

He moved his shoulders. "I don't like thinking about it, but yeah, I think she is. This guy planted a bomb in her apartment, dug up this body—" he jerked his chin at the body on the table "—and deposited at the lab. It's definitely personal."

"I've heard you've got Parker with you."

Booth's eyes went from dark to dark and hot. "Parker is _fine_, Camille. I can keep my own safe. He won't be involved in this. He's not in danger."

"But if our killer is going after Dr. Brennan…"

"He won't get close to her as long as I'm around." Booth scowled over his coffee cup. "Not as long as I've got a say in it." He knew that look in Cam's eyes, and he grumbled, "It's nothing like that, Camille. We're partners. You know what that means."

Cam inclined her head. "I know what it means," she agreed. "But the rest of us are safe?"

Booth shrugged again. "As safe as it ever gets, when you work murder cases associated with the FBI," he said.

"True. What've you got there?" Cam nodded at the file tucked under Booth's arm. "Anything on our online fan guy?"

"Name and address." Booth shook the file. "As soon as we're done here, Bones and I are going to head out, have a go with this guy."

"Seeley." He paused in the doorway, turned back. Cam held her hands out so the ooze dripped off her gloves onto the table, rather than the floor. "If he's as obsessed with Dr. Brennan as we think it is, it might be better not to take her with you. You might be able to tease something out of him that way, but it's equally as likely that he'll lie to try to impress her."

A frown creased his forehead. He hadn't thought of that. "So who do I take instead?"

Cam's smile flashed, bright and not a little wicked. "Who else?"

* * *

"I don't get why _I_ have to come when you go interview psychos and creeps," Angela complained from the passenger seat. Booth navigated the car to the quiet, upscale neighborhood where leafy trees lined the evenly-paved roads. Lawns were impeccably groomed, cars parked in driveways gleaming with good care. Booth imagined all the houses, on the inside, looked like poster children for some home decorating magazine.

"Cam suggested it," Booth told her with a sideways glance. "She thinks we should keep Bones away from this guy, at least initially. If he's as obsessed as we think he is, then better to keep him from face-to-face contact."

Angela shifted uncomfortably. "I'm an artist, Booth," she reminded him. "Not a cop, not a doctor. What do you want me to do while you interrogate him?"

Booth slid her a glance. "You're good with people. Watch his reactions, facial expression, hands, anything that might give him away. And you have a soothing personality—you inspire confidence. This guy might respond to that."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You want me to blush and flutter my lashes at him?" She batted them at him now in exaggerated parody of flirtation.

Booth's grin flashed. "Only if you think it'd help pry information out of our guy. Kellen Wright. Lives with his mom."

"Geek," Angela proclaimed. At Booth's glance, she elaborated, "He's, what, late twenties?" She flipped open the file, ignoring Booth's instinctive tensing. Temperance always let _him_ read the files. "Twenty-seven, lives with his widowed mom, works part-time at the local videogame shop. Classic geek."

"Thick glasses, pocket protectors, calculator addiction?" Booth asked.

"That's a nerd," Angela corrected, scanning the file. "Wow, there sure is a lot of information in here. What an invasion of privacy. Hey—you don't have any files on me, do you?"

Booth snagged the file out of her hand, closed it and stuck it in the door, out of her reach. "You're affiliated with the FBI," he told her. "Of course we do background checks."

"You've read mine?"

Booth wondered if it would be worth teasing her, figured her reaction might be too extreme. He turned into a cul-de-sac, scanned mailboxes for the house number. "Only as far as to make sure you're not a security threat. Angela, you're fine." He pulled up in front of a quiet, two-story house painted a neat pale blue with glossy white shutters and beds of flowers in riotous full bloom. "Nerd, geek, aren't they all the same?"

"Nerds can grow out of their high school social awkwardness." Angela flipped her hair back as she got out of the car, waited for Booth to round the hood before starting up the front walkway. "Geeks are doomed for their whole lives. Take Hodgins, for example. He's a nerd, but he's sweet. Geeks have it worse."

Booth's opinion of that was muttered, uncomplimentary, and earned him a hard elbow nudge as he rang the doorbell. "Just you see," Angela said as they heard locks clicking back. "You'll understand."

A woman stood on the other side of the closed screen door, face wary. "Yes?"

Booth's first thought was that she matched the house. Her hair, chestnut brown naturally graying, was cut short, held back with sensible clips. She wore house slippers with a comfortable and shapeless blue dress. "Mrs. Wright? FBI, special agent Seeley Booth. Angela Montenegro, from the Jeffersonian Institute. Is your son home?"

Fear flickered through her eyes. "Kellen hasn't done anything. Why do you need to come talk with him?"

"We just have a few questions, ma'am." All solicitude, Booth offered an easy smile as he slid his badge away. "Completely voluntarily, of course."

Her reaction was evidence enough that this wasn't Kellen's first run-in with the cops. She flipped the latch on the screen door, stepped back. "Of course. I'll call him up." She led them to a tidy, old-fashioned parlor. Booth wouldn't have been surprised if she'd offered them tea in dainty china cups. As it was, he was afraid he'd break the antique rose-patterned sofa if he sat too hard, and balanced himself on the edge of the couch.

Footsteps came down the narrow staircase, and Booth got his first glimpse of Kellen Wright.

He understood immediately what Angela meant as the difference between a nerd and a geek. His mental image was of the nerds he'd known—and, admittedly, tormented—during middle and high school, kids with glasses and a tendency to talk about physics and calculus when everyone around them was discussing the last football win, the upcoming weekend party.

This guy was, most definitively, a geek. He didn't have glasses or a pocket protector, but there was an air of gangly, teenaged awkwardness that clung to him. On a teenager, that sort of awkwardness was expected and acceptable; on a man in the latter half of his twenties, it was downright weird. Kellen Wright slouched into the parlor, shuffling oversized feet. His hair, greasy and uncombed, hung to the collar of a T-shirt that looked like he'd slept in it. He had limp blue eyes that clung uncomfortably to Booth's face.

"What does the FBI need?"

His voice had an annoying undertone of a whine. Booth waited until Kellen sat. "We just have a couple questions for you."

"Who's she?" Pale blue eyes flicked to Angela, held. "You're not FBI."

Angela managed a smile even as her skin crawled. "Not at all. I'm a friend of Dr. Brennan's. We work together at the Jeffersonian."

His eyes lit, maniacal interest. "Dr. Temperance Brennan? You know her?" He leapt to his feet, reached out as if to grab Angela's hands.

Booth clamped a hand over the guy's wrists. His voice was hard as granite. "Easy, bucko." His eyes held unspoken warning. "Hands to yourself, or I might get suspicious."

Kellen shifted that eerie gaze to Booth. "Same goes, Special Agent Booth."

Their eyes locked, held. Kellen was the first to back off, shifting down so Booth released him. He sat. "What does Dr. Brennan have to do with this?"

"Someone planted a bomb to blow up her apartment."

"And you think I had something to do with this?" Kellen's smile was humorless. "Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan is a very popular lady. She has quite a number of fans, of which I am only one."

Booth didn't return the smile. "You have quite an extensive knowledge about homemade pipe bombs." He tossed a printout of the forum discussion onto the coffee table in front of Kellen. He'd highlighted the pertinent area of the conversation. "Brennanguy227."

Kellen barely glanced at the printout. "You have a warrant to access username information?"

"I don't need a warrant, unless you have something to hide." Booth lifted an eyebrow, once again won the staring contest. "We know you're Brennanguy227. You seemed fairly certain that you had the correct formula for a homemade pipe bomb. Funny thing," he added casually. "The bomb that went off at Dr. Brennan's apartment? Matched your specs exactly."

Kellen's face went sullen. "You can't prove that sort of thing. A bomb blows up by definition, destroys evidence."

Angela spoke up. "We do a lot of backwards reconstruction at the lab." She didn't shudder when Kellen turned his eyes on her. "You'd be surprised at what we can find out by the evidence we collect at the scene. You've read all of Dr. Brennan's books—you should know that."

Anger sparked. "I have read all of Dr. Brennan's books, been to a number of her readings, and am a registered member of the Dr. Brennan Devotees."

"The what?"

"The DBD, or Devotees. An online club, members spread across the globe. The application process is extremely arduous, very strict." Kellen's smile sent chills skittering up Booth's spine. "You might consider us a modern-day secret society. Nobody knows each other's real-life identity."

"How about you give us your secret one?"

Kellen's face was sulky, like a child denied a treat, and he finally muttered, "Detective Andrew Ryan."

* * *

"That is so insulting."

Temperance kept pace beside Booth as they strode to her office. "Secret societies have existed for centuries, nearly as long as societies themselves have existed. Not all secret societies have corrupt or illicit underpinnings, and some even began as purveyors of good and justice. While the idea of a fan club secret society is odd and, I have to admit, rather uncomfortable, it doesn't make it a personal insult."

"No. Bones, this creepazoid is Detective Andy. That's me." Booth gave a huge shudder. "I am nothing like that guy."

"I never said I based Detective Andy on you," Temperance pointed out. It was a familiar argument, one she continued on the purely illogical basis of prolonging the argument itself. She would never admit to Booth that she had, at least in part, drawn some inspiration on the character from him, and much of the characters' interactions were based on her own relationship with Booth.

Booth snorted. "Don't be stupid, Bones. I think we should take a look at other members of this 'Dr. Brennan secret society' thing, just to be safe, but my money's on this Kellen guy."

"You didn't charge him with anything," Temperance said.

"There's the law to deal with," Booth retorted. "I can't be charging people just because my gut tells me they're at fault. That's why you need to come up with the evidence."

"I don't 'come up with' evidence," she countered as she scanned the emails piled up on the computer. "The evidence is there, I just interpret it. You know, if you're looking into secret societies, you should talk to Hodgins."

Booth couldn't hide the wince. "You could mention it to him. When I'm not around."

Temperance glanced up from her computer. "You're avoiding Hodgins?"

"Not avoiding. Just…leaving that up to you. My partner." Booth backed up out of the office. "Parker has swimming lessons at four-thirty. We could get you before or after."

Temperance leaned back in her chair, juggled her schedule. Thought about Parker at his swim lessons. Smiled. "Before," she said firmly. "I think I'd like to see him." As Booth left, Temperance called, "I'm not the one worried about secret societies, so if it bothers you, you take it up with Hodgins."

She grinned as she heard Booth's curse.

* * *

Angela caught Temperance as she was leaving her office for the night. "Brennan."

Temperance pulled on her light jacket, fastened the buttons. "What's up, Angela?"

"Are you sure you're not in any sort of danger?" Angela came into the office, stood at the end of Temperance's desk. "I'm worried about you. And that guy that Booth and I went to talk to today, the secret society guy? He was a _major_ creep, I tell you."

Smiling, Temperance pulled the handgun she'd bought for herself out of her purse. "We've dealt with creeps before, and I know how to defend myself. Besides, with Booth hovering, I won't have a chance to feel unsafe. You shouldn't take any undue risks, either."

"Believe me, I'm not." Angela shivered. "I told Hodgins he's not allowed to let me get out of his sight unless we're here in the lab. I've already asked him about this secret Brennan society thing, and he said he'll look into it later tonight. He should have something for you by tomorrow." She matched Temperance's pace as they walked around the central platform. "You going home already?"

"Parker has swim class tonight, so Booth's picking me up on their way." Temperance waved to the security guard at the door. "I got in early this morning. Zack said he'd call if he found anything matching the twins to the dead fiancé."

"The love triangle." Angela wiggled her eyebrows. "Normally the fiancé would be the first suspect, but in this case, he's just another dead guy." She watched Booth pull up in the FBI truck, gave Temperance a brief hug at the front doors. "See you in the morning."

Temperance hurried out to the curb, where Booth idled. "Hi, Parker." She smiled at him as she buckled her seat. "How was school today?"

"It was fun!" Parker bounced in his seat. "We read a new story in class today. It was really funny, about a boy and his pet turtle. Dr. Bones, you never told me a funny bathtime story."

She'd hoped he'd forgotten about that. "You seem to know a lot of funny stories already," she said, buying herself some time. "And I'm not good with funny stories. Ask your dad about that."

Parker poked his bottom lip out in exaggerated disappointment. "Not fair, Dr. Bones! I want _you_ to tell me a funny story!"

Temperance met Booth's eyes, silently pleading. He just grinned at her and lifted an eyebrow. He knew she didn't believe in lying, even when lying would be both expedient and redemptive. Temperance blew out a breath. "I have to think of a good one. Your father might be adept at making up stories, but I have to think of one."

"Okay." Satisfied by the promise of an upcoming story, Parker sat back. "I'm glad you're going to come watch me swim. I'm really good. Mikhel's pretty good, too, but I'm faster."

"Mikhel?" Temperance remembered his friend, the small boy with big eyes who used a wheelchair. "You mentioned he swims with you."

"Uh-huh. Some of the other kids make fun of him, because he needs to wear floaties and have an aide with him, but Mikhel's gotten better." Parker's face set in stubborn lines. "Dad says if you keep trying at something, you can only get better."

"Really?" Temperance slid Booth a glance, amused. "Your father occasionally says intelligent, responsible things."

Booth made a face at her. "It's not as rare as a blue moon," he told her. He shot Parker a glance in the mirror. "Tell Bones about your spelling test, champ."

Parker entertained them with tales about his spelling test, and then his math lesson that day, which involved learning how to make line graphs, until they reached the boys' and girls' club. Mikhel was waiting with his father by the side door, and Parker excitedly took his bag of gear from Booth and ran off into the locker room, leaving Temperance and Booth behind.

Booth steered Temperance around back, where the pool was. Another class was in session, and older, more advanced swimmers did timed laps in cordoned-off lanes. They ascended the metal bleachers to sit near the top, away from the scattering of other parents watching practice. "I spoke with the dead fiancé's parents," he said, keeping his voice low. "They didn't seem particularly surprised. They do want to know when they can have the remains to take back to Japan."

"Cremation is often the preferred method of burial in Japan," Temperance said. "After Buddhism was first recorded to have been introduced to Japan in 552 AD, Buddhist rituals have melded with the Japanese culture, which itself is already heavily influenced by the native Shinto religion, or nature worship. The Buddhist religion mandates cremation as the norm, and cremation is a logical choice for such a densely populated area, where buying grave sites is a huge expense due to scarcity of the commodity."

Booth rubbed his temple. "So?"

"So, his parents are likely to be displeased when they find out we only have their son's bones left." Temperance shook her head, as if it were obvious. Below them, kids hauled themselves, sloshing and dripping, from the pool, laughing and calling out to each other as they grabbed towels and headed into the locker rooms. "Bones do not turn to ash in a typical crematorium, and are left to be encased in an urn, which is typically kept in a family grave. Likely his parents already have a gravesite."

That was so morbid. Booth frowned. "I told them we'd be in contact as soon as the remains could be transferred. They're planning on staying in the area until they get their son back, so, for their sake, it'd be great if we could wrap this all up soon."

"We're working on it," Temperance reminded him, then had to grin as Parker came out of the locker room wearing bright red swim trunks. He looked small and brave as he draped his Spiderman-designed towel on the lowest level of the bleachers. Parker caught sight of them, waved. "I remember my first swim lesson," she said. "I was four years old, and terrified of the water. My dad was with me, and he held me up as I splashed around. Russ would have been eight or so, and restricted to the shallow end. My mom had watermelon for us to eat, but we had to wait thirty minutes after eating before we could go back in the pool."

Her voice took on that misty, reminiscent tone that so rarely crept in without her knowing. Booth just grinned, eyes on Parker as he greeted the swim instructor, a leanly muscled man with sandy blond hair and striped swim trunks. "I used to tell my brother he'd die if he swallowed the watermelon seeds, because a watermelon would grow in his stomach. We'd have spitting contests to see who could spit the seeds further. I always won."

"You probably cheated," Temperance commented. "And it is impossible for a watermelon to grow in someone's stomach."

Booth rolled his eyes. "I knew that, but it kept my brother in mortal fear for years." His voice was smug with satisfaction. His stomach clenched as he watched Parker plunge into the pool, relaxed when Parker', broke the surface, blowing like a horse at the water trough. "Zack have any ideas about the swapped bones in the twins?"

"We know the switch was made post-mortem, but Zack doesn't do hypothesis. He doesn't speculate about the why, just the what and the how." Temperance watched Parker's friend, dressed in trunks that bagged around his bony knees, wheel himself out to the edge of the pool. A woman, dressed in a simple one-piece, helped him out of the chair and into the water. Mikhel clung to the edge of the pool until she slipped in beside him. The flotation aids on his biceps were bright orange markers, setting him apart from Parker and the other children that splashed in the water, waiting for class to start.

"There has to be some significance about the particular bones that were cut. The, what, right hand ring finger, left arm bone…"

"The right knee and rib eleven on the left side," Temperance concluded, the indicated bones vivid in her mind's eye. "We also know Evelyn had thyroid cancer, and Vanessa was engaged to a Japanese man."

"Evelyn's mother disapproved of her boyfriend," Booth added. "Tyrone Fisher. He's hard to pin down, but as soon as we catch up with him, I'll haul him in for questioning. Hodgins should have some info for us tomorrow, too, about your secret society stalker."

Temperance frowned at Booth, distracted from her observation of Mikhel and Parker at their lesson. "You talked to Hodgins?"

"Yeah." Though 'talk' was a loose description of the headache-inducing stream of words that came out of that man's mouth. "I gave him a call, asked him to do some research on your fan club. That's just downright creepy."

"Booth, fan clubs are completely legitimate entities." Temperance frowned at Mikhel, eyes sharp as she watched his movements in the water. "They're generally entirely harmless. What's wrong with Mikhel?"

Booth glanced down at the boy struggling through the water with his aide's guiding hands. "Radiation fallout, Ukraine, something." He waved a hand, the details foggy. "You're the one who knows that kind of thing."

"Evelyn's adopted mother said Evelyn had thyroid cancer." Temperance's brain began to whirl as thoughts coalesced, and a larger picture began to form. "Thyroid cancer is extremely rare in patients under the age of thirty, but is fairly common for anyone exposed to extreme levels of nuclear radiation. Both Vanessa and Evelyn are of indeterminate European heritage."

Booth scratched his head. "You think our twins were radioactive babies?"

Impatient, Temperance hurried on, "Did you see Evelyn's mom, Catherine? She had patches of scarring on her skin, discolored areas."

"She's not a model," Booth agreed. "But what does that matter?"

"People exposed to nuclear radiation can suffer from skin damage," Temperance explained. "Acute damage may explain the scarring."

"Wait." Booth held up a hand. "You're saying that Evelyn's mother is her birth mother? Hers, and Vanessa's?"

"I'm saying it's a possibility," Temperance replied. "If she were exposed to the same nuclear fallout that Mikhel's parents were, she could have suffered radiation sickness. That would explain Evelyn's thyroid cancer."

Booth thought about it. It didn't _not_ make sense, but at the same time…"That doesn't narrow down the suspect list any. What motivation would Catherine Morris have to kill both her own daughters?"

Temperance sent Booth a level look. "I just work the evidence, Booth. You're the people person. You figure it out."

Booth sighed and turned his attention back to the figure of his son, happily swimming alongside his friend. _Yeah,_ he thought. _I'll figure this out.

* * *

_~3.20.11


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** This is not, by any means, my most impressive piece of writing. There are a number of loose ends that should be more neatly tied off, some that should have been tied off in earlier chapters. I'd really appreciate your constructive criticism and specific feedback on what doesn't work in this chapter and what would improve the storyline/throughlines of this fic. I fully intend to go back and fix this story up once I've finished it up.

**Disclaimer:** (Have I forgotten the disclaimer until now? Oops!) I don't own Bones. I write for my own pleasure and for the reading pleasure of those who choose. I make no money off of this. In fact, I make no money at all, because I'm in grad school.

**Chapter Eight**

**

* * *

**

To say that Catherine Morris appeared _displeased_ at being called back to the FBI, this time in the austere setting of the interrogation room, was as much an understatement as saying that the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor _irritated_ the American public.

"I don't understand why you insist on wasting your time, and mine, on bringing me back when your efforts would obviously be better spent tracking down the man who murdered my child. Have you spoken with Tyrone Fisher?" she demanded, leaning forward slightly. Her eyes bored into Booth's. "Have you found out about his drug record, his lewd public behavior?"

Booth leaned back in his chair, outwardly both relaxed and confident. "The FBI is looking for him, but he's remarkably elusive. In the meantime, we are investigating all other leads."

Her lips folded into a thin, disapproving line. Booth was well aware of that look. It was one he'd often gotten as a child, from his own mother and from the nuns at church when he'd misbehaved. "I was called in here for you to tell me that you're investigating?"

Temperance interrupted what she assumed would quickly degrade into an endless tirade. "Was your adopted daughter aware that you were, in fact, her biological mother?"

Catherine Morris jolted in her chair. Her gaze whipped to Temperance's face, and fear and shock were stark in her eyes. "You…How…" She tried to mask her surprise with disdain. "You have no proof."

"Genetic markers on facial recognition computer software says you're a match," Temperance countered without heat. Why would there be a need for heat? It was truth, because the facts never lie. "There are visual similarities between you and Evelyn, and the timeline fits, logically. Added to that, we know you have falsified information on file with the U.S. government."

"Your name, place of birth, family history." Booth tossed the FBI file on her across the table. Once they'd thought to look that far, the FBI had found more than enough to issue the necessary warrants and do the necessary digging. "You knew the adoption agency wouldn't clear you as an adopted mother if they knew you had a high risk factor, and at the time, you were suffering your own health problems that would have blocked you from being considered a 'fit' parent." He watched her face flush, with anger or embarrassment. "What I don't understand is why you would put your daughters up for adoption when you wanted to keep them."

Catherine's head flew up. "Daughters?" she repeated, a shocked whisper. Her hand lifted to her mouth, her gaze flitting back and forth from Booth to Temperance. "No…No, that can't be true. Eliza died when she was a baby. Three days. She was never adopted." Her skittering gaze landed on Temperance. Perhaps—Temperance would never know these things—perhaps because they were both female, and therefore the sympathy was assumed to be there, Catherine's eyes clung to Temperance's. For hope, for reassurance, for pity.

"I thought I'd lost her." Her whisper was anguished as the tears spilled over and down her stark face. "I was told…They said I'd lost her, and I rescinded my offer of giving up my daughters for adoption. So I kept Evelyn, and thought…I thought I'd lost Eliza."

"Did you see the body?" Temperance barely winced when Booth jammed an elbow into her side. "Did you see your baby's body?"

Horror and anger flickered over Catherine's face. "Of course I did. I held a proper burial for her." Her hands fluttered, touching her mouth as if to hold back the words. "You've never seen anything as terrible as a baby's casket. There's nothing like it." She folded in on herself, gave in to the tears, and bent to cover her face with her hands.

"Nothing."

* * *

"She didn't seem to be acting," Temperance commented. She and Booth were on the road, headed for the lab. She swiveled, angling her torso so she could better see Booth's face. He was good at guarding his words, but she'd learned how to read his face, those flickers of emotion that not even he could keep entirely hidden.

Not from her, at any rate. They were partners, for everything that meant.

"Do you think she was acting?"

Booth knew Temperance was watching him. It still gave him that itch, right between the shoulder blades, but he was used to it. It was the same look she used when she was staring at bones under a microscope, or when she was crouched down beside a rotting corpse in some smelly alley or half-buried in a forest somewhere. He wasn't sure how he thought about her using it on him, but he was used to it.

"No."

"She thought Vanessa—Eliza—was dead."

"Yeah."

"Someone lied to her."

"Could be."

Temperance huffed out a breath. "I'm not an expert on social behavior, but most people, when they want to keep up a conversation, try to respond in more than monosyllabic, mostly single word answers."

"Maybe I don't want to keep up the conversation."

His words hit her like a slap, and Temperance had to tighten her jaw muscles to keep her mouth from flapping open in shock. A thousand thoughts burst in her head, all simultaneously. What was going on? What just happened? Was he mad at her?

Then she took a good look at his face. Furious, she shoved him hard enough he rapped the side of his head on the window. "You jerk," she fumed as the grin broke out on his face. "That wasn't funny, Booth."

Booth managed to keep the car on the road—quite a feat, when Temperance had pushed him hard enough to rock its suspension. "Sorry," he apologized without any real feeling behind it. "I couldn't help it." His phone rang, and he fumbled it out of his pocket. It fell between the seats, chiming insistently. "Shit."

"No, don't get it." Temperance batted his hand away, reaching for it herself. "Focus on not driving us into a light pole."

"You almost made me do that," he muttered, but let Temperance reach into the narrow space between seats to pull his phone out with two fingers. He reached out a hand for it and gaped when she flipped it open and answered it herself.

"Seeley Booth, FBI."

She didn't even bother to disguise her voice. Booth tried not to wince as he imagined who might be on the other end and what their reaction would be.

"Oh, sure. Hang on." Temperance held the phone out to Booth, her eyes carefully blank. "It's Rebecca."

Booth's gut iced over—fear, nerves, worry. "Rebecca?"

Her voice was cheerful. "How's my little guy doing?"

"Parker's fine. How are you doing?"

"Just got the word from the doctor. They're releasing me from prison day after tomorrow. Brent's working on getting us plane tickets back to D.C. that day. I should be able to swing by and pick him up after school. We can grab his stuff from your apartment in the evening."

Booth felt an absurd pang in his stomach, bereft pain at the idea of Parker not being around anymore. Manfully he swallowed it down. He'd known this situation was only temporary, and he was, sincerely, glad Rebecca was better. "Glad to hear it. Leg's all better, then?"

"Still in a cast, but you can sign it." She was all but singing. "You have no idea, Seeley. I am _so_ looking forward to being out of this damn hospital bed."

He had a very good idea. How many hospital beds had Booth been confined to during his time? But he just grinned into the phone. "Yeah. Call me when you know your flight time. Parker will be happy to see you."

"Tell him I love him. Bye, Seeley."

Booth hung up, tossed the phone into the cup holder. Temperance was trying not to listen in, he knew, but she was a smart woman. Booth figured she could piece together the gist of the conversation. "Rebecca will be home in a couple days. Doctors say she'll be good to go on Friday."

"That's good."

Booth had to swallow the lump in his throat. "Yeah." His phone rang again, and he snatched it up before Temperance could get to it. "You suck at pretending to be me," he told her, then flipped the phone open. "Booth." His brows drew together, and he swung the car into a quick U-turn. "Yeah. On my way."

"What is it?" Quick fear lurched in Temperance's gut as the thought of another death crossed her mind.

Booth flicked her a glance, and his eyes were dark and hard—predator's eyes, she thought. "They found the boyfriend."

* * *

Tyrone Fisher looked the part of someone with a rap sheet, was all Temperance could think. She'd seen enough of his kind—those who slid in and out of the system like a shark slides through water—to know he wasn't likely to amend his ways anytime soon.

No wonder Catherine Morris had been opposed to her daughter's choice in boyfriends.

He was a good enough looking boy, sulky around the eyes, with the odd, almost translucent look around him of someone who spent too much time imbibing in illegal substances and not enough in the sun. His clothes were rumpled, and he reeked of old alcohol and too long a period without bathing.

Booth tossed evidence bags with various items they'd confiscated off Tyrone and from his car when the FBI had caught up with him. "Nine hundred dollars cash, eight ounces of weed, two open whiskey bottles in the backseat, receipts for gas from D.C. nearly to Alabama, various bags of Cheetos, and—my favorite—a well-used copy of last month's _Playboy_." Booth settled himself in the chair across the stainless steel table, crossed his arms and waited.

Tyrone lifted sullen, bloodshot eyes. "So the fuck what?"

"So the fuck that the timing's interesting, that's all. Your girlfriend goes missing—murdered—and you just happen to decide to take off for another state. Crossing state lines with drugs is a federal crime, and that'll put you away for a good long time. But the way I see it, that's just the icing on the cake, because once I get you for first degree murder of three people, one of them with international citizenship, you'll only have to serve a portion of that sentence."

Confusion flittered across Tyrone's face. "What?"

Booth's grin was wide and unfriendly. "Because they don't keep you on death row forever."

The hangover, and the crash from the drug high, were definitely impairing Tyrone. "What?"

Booth leaned forward in the chair, eyes hard. "Listen, pal, you don't want to go down for three murders? You tell me what you know. Starting with where you got the nine hundred dollars."

In the observation room, Temperance watched and listened as Booth took Tyrone through the steps. It was always an experience, she thought, too see Booth in his element. She was so used to seeing him in hers—in the lab, in the field—that it was always, still, something of a mild shock to see him in interview. He was fully in control of himself, his hands, his body, his voice, his words.

Here, Temperance knew, Booth was more than just her match. He was, by far, her superior.

Temperance watched as Booth got up from the table and left the room. A minute later, the door opened, and he strode in. Together they watched Tyrone slump in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face. "You don't think he did it."

Booth was no longer surprised that Temperance could sometimes seemingly read his mind. He dipped his hands in his pockets. "No. This guy knows something, and he's guilty as sin, but I don't see this guy as capable of pulling off a triple homicide."

She could understand that. "But he has an unusual amount of money."

"I'll get the source out of him." Booth was casually confident about that. He turned back for the door. "This case is messier than it needs to be. We need to find that killer, Bones, before things get even messier."

Temperance murmured an agreement, but the door was always swinging shut behind him. Her mind mulled over the facts, turning them around as if they were puzzle pieces that needed to fit. They had three dead bodies, two of which were unknown identical twins, one of which had been kept by her biological mother, the other who had been adopted by outside parents and who was engaged to the third victim. They'd struck out on every lead thus far, had no clues about the swapped body parts, which even Zack was beginning to think were entirely random, and were racing against time. After a case dragged on for too long, leads went cold. Temperance knew Booth hated to leave cases open.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out. "Brennan."

Hodgins' voice was excited as he spoke rapidly. "DBD, Dr. Brennan Devotees. Highly secretive, online-hosted society of the crème de la crème of Brennanites. Entrance is conditional on passing an extremely rigorous series of tests, first one multiple-choice online, second one essay, third a phone interview with an anonymous interviewer. If you pass all those steps, you are invited for a phone conference with the other members of the society, during which you are subjected to an excruciating interview process wherein they test your knowledge of Brennan lore. If you get high enough marks on _that_, you are invited to assume the identity of a chosen Kathy Reichs character. To date, there are only seven members of this club. They have never met face-to-face and are extremely protective of their real-life identities."

"Booth said the guy they went to talk to, the guy from the fansite, said as much." Temperance watched Booth browbeat the suspect in the room as she paced. "How did you find out so much?"

The smirk was evident in Hodgins' voice. "You don't want to know, baby."

There was shuffling, and then Temperance heard Angela's voice. "Brennan? It's Angela. That guy, Kellen, mentioned that his secret identity was Detective Andy, from your books. If you think about the power hierarchy, then that would make him either a big deal or one of the founding members. Following that logic, Hodgins decided to track down who is Kathy Reichs in this creepy society thing. We came up with the name Carol Whistler."

"Carol Whistler?" Temperance frowned. "I don't know who that is."

"Get this." Temperance could see Angela leaning forward towards the speaker phone. "She's the head of New Beginnings Adoption Center. Her website says they specialize in helping underprivileged people from third world countries find loving homes for their babies, especially those with potential medical health problems. There's no way she's not involved in this."

Temperance remembered now. Vanessa Hammond's adopted parents had mentioned something about the adoption agency woman. She also remembered that Booth didn't believe in coincidences.

"I'll tell Booth." She hung up the phone and went around to interrupt the interview.

* * *

"Carol Whistler facilitated Vanessa's adoption, likely was responsible for staging Vanessa's death as an infant," Booth said as he drove with ruthless precision across downtown to the adoption agency office. "Catherine Morris said Evelyn moved into the area for work—D.C.'s a big city, but it's not impossible that the twins might have met by chance, realized the mix-up at birth. They confront Carol, she panics, kills them both."

"What about the fiancé?" Temperance could follow Booth's reasoning well enough, conjecture and supposition notwithstanding, but he was missing pieces.

Booth's brows drew together as he wove the story. "Could be a case of wrong place, wrong time. He was a witness, knew too much, couldn't be left alive." He tapped a finger against the steering wheel. "Doesn't explain why his body was dumped at the Jeffersonian."

It was no fun when he beat her to poking holes in his theory. "And the bomb?"

"Carol could have done that. If she's Kathy Reichs of this secret society, she'd be in communication with Kellen. She could have gotten the bomb recipe from him, made it, planted it to scare you, throw you off the scent. Or cast suspicion on him." Either way seemed logical to Booth.

"And Tyrone Fisher? He admitted that Carol was the one who gave him the money and told him to run."

"Red herring." His patience tore as he was forced to brake hard behind a car stopping at a yellow light. Didn't people run red lights around here? He was tempted to throw on the lights but resisted. He didn't want to give Carol any chance to get away if she saw them coming. "Carol Whistler reads your books, she's got to be a smart woman. She'd know we'd try to track down Evelyn's boyfriend, see that he'd fled the area, and concentrate the investigation there. And since she was clever enough never to give him her name, she thought she'd covered herself."

Temperance could see that logic. "She didn't think that Tyrone was smart enough to check up on her. Humans often pass initial first judgment and are resistant to changing opinions based on prejudices or stereotypes."

Booth parked the car at the curb, made sure his gun was in easy reach. He laid a hand on Temperance's arm as she got out of the car. "I go in first," he said. She started to protest, knee-jerk reaction, and he tightened his fingers. "I go in first," he repeated. "If she tries to get out, you go around back and head her off. She might be armed, we know she's dangerous."

"I can handle myself," Temperance reminded him, but she didn't argue when Booth pushed his way first.

Sometimes, she thought, he just had to be a hero.

The little agency was cramped in a tiny office, where the grime and dinge were thinly and valiantly coated with hope. The girl working the front desk looked young enough to still be in school, with the wide, bright smile of the innocent or the very idealistic. She aimed that smile at Booth, skimmed an interested glance over him.

To her credit, the smile didn't dim any when she caught sight of Temperance. "Good afternoon, and welcome to New Beginnings. How may I help you today?"

Booth flipped his badge onto the counter, watched her eyes widen. He kept his voice low. "Carol Whistler in?"

The girl looked interested, but not fear. "Of course. Ms. Whistler is in her office. I'd be happy to let her know you're here…"

Booth held up a finger. "Just point out her office, and don't let anyone else back. We'll need a few minutes with her, uninterrupted."

The interest was fading into confusion, and the first hints of nerves. "Yes, sure. Straight down this hallway, second door on the right. She shouldn't be in any conferences."

Booth checked the hallway, made sure no one else was in the vicinity. He heard murmured voices behind closed doors, assumed they were some sort of meetings with prospective parents or pregnant mothers. He made sure his body blocked Temperance's as he stepped into the office of Carol Whistler.

She looked up when they entered, and he read the answers in her eyes even as she rose, her face carefully schooled into a polite mask. "Good afternoon."

"Carol Whistler." Booth kept his eyes on her face. "We're here to speak to you about Evelyn Morris and Vanessa Hammond."

Her lips firmed, and she blew out a quiet breath. "I really thought I'd get away with it, you know. Tyrone Fisher was never supposed to have been able to identify me, and he should have been long gone. I suppose it was his drug habit that got him caught."

"Are you admitting to the murder of Evelyn Morris and Vanessa Hammond?" Booth kept his weight on the balls of his feet. Carol stayed seated behind her desk. People kept guns in all sorts of easy-to-reach places at their workplaces.

Carol continued as if she hadn't heard him. "Evelyn was never supposed to come back here, you see. I couldn't risk her and her twin meeting again. I had told Evelyn's mother that the other twin, the daughter she had named Eliza, had died. Evelyn moved back here, and then so did her mother. The twins met." She shook her head, made a little tsking noise as if chastising a misbehaving child. "At a party, a friend-of-a-friend type of thing. They realized, instantly, of course, that they were twins. They came here, to speak with me. To demand answers. Evelyn said she would tell her mother, that her mother deserved the right to know about her daughter." Insult and anger hardened her face. "She said I had ruined their lives by separating them. How could they accuse me of that? I _saved_ them."

Temperance didn't step forward, knowing Booth would just block her. Instead she stayed by the open door. "You think you saved them?"

Carol nodded once. "Yes. Their birth mother, Catherine, wasn't suited for motherhood. Working in an adoption agency, you can tell when mothers come in to give up their babies. You can tell who would make a good mother and who wouldn't. I couldn't save both twins, but I could save one. I chose Vanessa, because she was the healthy one. She deserved a full, bright life, with a family that would do right by her. So I told Catherine one of her daughters had died."

"You killed them both. Neither of them had a chance at life, bright or otherwise." Booth's voice was hard, his eyes colder still. "You buried them where you thought the bodies wouldn't be found. I guess you forgot one thing." He watched the first flicker of unease in the woman's eyes.

He pulled out his handcuffs, strode straight around the desk and yanked her arms behind her back as she started to weep. "In those Kathy Reichs novels, in the end, the good guys always win."

* * *

~3.27.11


End file.
